"Heh. Figures it'd be a grey wind that blows you into my shop," the sharp-featured old woman grumbled, looking up as Padan unsteadily climbed out of the rowboat and tipped the boatsman a copper coin. He shut the door behind him and shook off his cloak. Rainwater dappled the floor and furniture around him.
"Gods, woman, don't you ever dust in here?" Padan snapped back, sneezing as the breeze from his cloak raised a cloud of dust.
"Try working as hard as I do, and see how much time you have for housecleaning." She scowled at him. "What do you want, anyway, old man?"
"I'll start with a cup of tea." Padan eased past the tables and shelves piled with curios to reach the small stove in the back. Caras already had a pot on the stove. "It's cold out there."
"No colder than it was ten years ago. Didn't hear you complaining then."
"Calling me old?"
"At least fossils don't complain."
Padan laughed at her and took the mug she handed him, relaxing into a chair. She scooted her rocking chair around to face him.
"So, what ill business brings you here today?" she asked. He sighed.
"Did you ever meet a young man called Ransom?"
She pursed her lips and thought a moment.
"Dark haired, handsome young man, isn't he? I think the Mercantile does business with him once in awhile. I've seen him around, but I've never really been introduced."
"He was murdered last night. Or maybe early this morning. I found him."
"A friend of yours?"
"The son of a friend, and yes, my friend, too." Padan sighed. "I was wondering if you knew who Ransom worked with. He was unpacking some crates when he died. The contents were missing."
"Did you look at his ledger?"
Padan shook his head.
"Didn't even think of it," he admitted sheepishly. "I don't remember seeing one ... but I wasn't thinking too clearly."
"Some fool I have as a friend," Caras muttered to herself, rolling her eyes to the cobwebbed ceiling.
"Well," Padan asked, nettled, "what should I do now?" She pursed her lips.
"I suppose the guards who investigated took the ledger as evidence. Ask at headquarters and see if you can look at it. Although the commander's a shifty bastard and probably wouldn't give you the time of day without a bribe."
Padan burst into startled laughter, wrinkles deepening as he smiled at her.
"Now, is that any way for a lady to talk about a defender of the peace?"
"He's worthless," she spat with honest irritation. "Three times shoplifters have hit my shop, and never once could I get a guard to investigate. 'Too petty a crime,' meaning I don't have enough money to bribe his eminence," her face twisted sourly at the title, "to pay attention to my troubles."
"Well, you don't give me much hope. Still, I've had a drink with the Swords' clerk a few times in the Cask. Maybe he'll look the other way for me."
"There's no harm in trying," she shrugged. Then she grinned and patted his arm. "You come back and tell me, either way. We'll nail whoever murdered your friend to Sheavegate, just you see."
"Thanks." Padan was touched that his irascible friend would make such an offer. He finished his tea and drew on his still-damp cloak with a shiver. "No time like now."
"Don't fall into the canals," she called after him. "Don't want my dinner fish poisoned!"

"Dead!" Bryony spun in his chair, staring at the servant with eyes gone suddenly wide. "What of his shipment?"
"I don't know, exalted," Tull shrugged. "Claimed by Commander Shard, no doubt, or taken by whomever found the body."
"Find out," the poet rasped, fingers clenching reflexively. Parchment crumpled in his grasp. "I want to know!"
Tull bowed and left, glad of a reason to escape his master's building fury. Behind him, the narrow-faced exalt stared at his reflection in the window across the desk. Water streamed over the glass, turning his pale complexion grey.
"Damn him!" Bryony cursed vehemently. "After all -" He pushed himself violently away from the desk, fists clenching. "After all these years!" he howled. "I'll kill the bastard! I'll tear his throat out!" He lifted a goblet of spiced wine and threw it at the wall, leaving a splatter like a blood stain. "I'll destroy him! I'll hunt down whoever took those stones and see him flayed!"
"Exalted?" a trembling servant ventured. Bryony turned on him with a face distorted with rage. The servant paled, but kept his composure with effort. The ability to deal with such fits was a prerequisite of serving this House. "A man named Lucair requests your time."
"Why?" Bryony's voice rang with sudden suspicion.
"He says he has a new shipment of Alerian and Thaiss, exalted. Tull just left and...." the servant let his voice trail off in sudden self-doubt. Bryony glared at him.
"I. do. not. deal. with. merchants." He bit off each word fiercely. The servant bobbed his head and hastily scrambled out of the room. Bryony stared out the window a moment, then whipped around.
"YOU!" he roared. The servant raced back in, face white. Bryony glowered at him.
"Send the merchant in. I have some questions to ask him, after all."
"Yes, exalted."
When Lucair entered the study, the poet was seated at the desk, toying with a quill pen. The parchment was neatly arranged on the desk. Wine slowly ran down the wall.
"Exalt Wolf Bryony," the servant announced. "Sieur Lucair Shadrach."
"You're no member of the Mercantile," Bryony accused without preamble. Lucair bowed his head in acknowledgement, looking for a place to sit. There was no chair within reach.
"I'm a free trader, exalted," the blond man said, ill at ease. The noble's hooded gaze offered him no respite. "I purchased a shipment of Alerian and Thaiss in the Night Market." He cleared his throat nervously. "Everyone knows you are a connoisseur who might be interested in such substances."
"I am." The man's nervousness piqued Bryony's curiosity. "The Mercantile has reported no shipments due."
"'The Night Market has no history,'" Lucair quoted with an apprehensive laugh.
"...Except one," Bryony smiled ferally. "And the one who carried that shipment was found dead last night." His eyes drilled into Lucair's.
"Exalted," Lucair said faintly, "I'm not responsible for the source of the Night Market's goods!"
"The merchant you bought this shipment from," Bryony pressed, "did he have any stones for sale—gems?"
"N ... no, exalted." Sweat beaded Lucair's face despite the chill air. "Not that I saw. I could find out, if it pleases you."
"It would." Bryony stared a moment at the blank paper before him, thinking. "Go downstairs and tell Tull I've authorized him to buy your drugs, merchant. Send a servant to me. And be wary of what you buy from the Night Market." He bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile. Lucair bowed with an ingratiating smile. Bryony scowled at him as he left and waited for his servant to appear.
"Check on this Lucair," he said when the nervous subordinate stood before him. "I want to known if he's known as a free trader, or ever seen in the Night Market."

Jarek looked up from his desk and smiled at Padan, who entered in a burst of cold wind and rain. The shower had gotten stronger, threatening to turn into one of the near-hurricane-strength storms that scoured the lone island every winter. By the hearth, several off-duty Swords cursed as the wind swept through the room.
"Good morning, Padan," the clerk welcomed him. He looked well, Padan thought, although his dark hair was just beginning to show the salting of white that heralded middle age. "What can I do for you?"
Padan laboriously lowered himself into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, rubbing his legs. The ache had settled in, and each step hurt.
"Hello, Jarek. Haven't seen you at the Cask lately."
"Business," the clerk shrugged, teeth flashing under a bristling mustache. "I heard you had an active night."
Padan grunted, feeling a wave of weariness wash over him. He impatiently fought it back.
"That's why I'm here," he said. Jarek didn't look surprised. "Tell me," he said, leaning closer and dropping his voice, "is Shard investigating?"
Jarek shifted uncomfortably, meeting Padan's gaze with sympathy. He'd worked under the former commander before Shard had taken office, and was painfully aware of how the Swords had changed since then.
"It's not top priority," he admitted, voice low. "This Ransom was known to be a part-time smuggler, so...."
"I thought not." Padan's voice was grim. "Well, that boy was the son of a friend of mine; we used to work together during the war, and I've been keeping tabs on him since. I want to find out who killed him."
"I'd like to help you, of course," Jarek murmured. "But you realize, investigating this on your own could be dangerous. Whoever killed him did a neat job of it."
Padan nodded.
"I want to see his ledger. See who was on it, get an idea of where to start."
"Well, just a minute." Jarek lifted a pile of papers from one corner of the desk and shuffled through them, quickly pulling several out. "Here's a list of what was found. You realize," he added, "I'll have to ask the commander if you want to examine any evidence. He's out right now, but he'll probably be back soon. And you'll have to examine it in front of a witness."
Padan nodded impatiently, gesturing him to continue. Jarek scanned the papers, paging through them one by one. Finally he looked up, eyebrows drawn together in dismay.
"There's no ledger listed here, Padan. Are you sure the victim kept one?"
"Of course he did," Padan scowled. "He was a businessman. Damn!" He leaned on his cane, frowning. "Now, you're sure it would be listed there if it had been found?"
"Reasonably. It's possible it might have gotten 'lost' by one of the guards investigating, if it had incriminating evidence in it." Jarek glanced at the first page of the report. "But I don't think so, not these Swords. They're old-timers, and honest enough."
"So, either Ransom didn't have it with him, or whoever killed him took it." Padan shook his head. "Do these papers of yours have his home address?"
"Twenty-six Wildren Way, Haute Lucerne," Jarek promptly read. "His rooms have already been searched."
Padan looked up, surprised.
"Standard procedure in a murder." Jarek cleared his throat apologetically. "Ransom didn't have any heirs. His belongings revert to the city, and the commander keeps them until High Lord Lucan makes a decision on how they should be divided." Jarek shrugged. "They're included in the list. No ledger."
"And no clues?" Padan didn't need to see Jarek's shrug. Undoubtedly, the most valuable of Ransom's belongings would never be shown to the high lord, finding their way into Shard's hands first. And with nothing but larceny on their minds, it was reasonable to assume the guards hadn't spent too much time searching the place for clues. Well, if there'd been anything there once, it was sure to be gone now. Padan grimaced in frustration.
"I'm sorry," Jarek said softly. The older man sighed heavily, meeting the clerk's understanding gaze.
"If you discover anything about his murder—anything—would you leave me a message at the Cask?" Padan asked. Jarek smiled warmly.
"Sure, Padan. I will. Be careful in this storm, now; I nearly broke my leg yesterday on the stairs!"
"Don't mother a man old enough to be your father," Padan replied with a half-hearted smile. Turning up the collar of his raincloak, he turned to walk to the Mercantile Hall.
The walk was short, circling Court Carroca. No merchants displayed their wares in this storm, and the court seemed sadly empty and grey without their bright canopies and loud voices. Padan carefully tapped over the treacherously slick cobbles and rapped his cane against the Mercantile Hall's ornate doors.
A few of the men and women who sat in the grand hall were familiar, most of them from shady deals transacted with Padan during the war. They looked at the old man without recognition and quietly returned to their conversations and books. Padan hung his cloak on a peg by the door.
"Is Etielle around?" he brusquely asked the doorman.
"He's working in his office, sieur. Shall I announce you?"
"My name's Padan Vair. Tell him it's about Ransom."
"Yes, sieur. If you'll take a seat, I'll have the message relayed." The doorman walked to a side passage and spoke briefly to the youth there, who stood and left. Padan sat in a leather-padded chair and relaxed, eyes closing.
"Sieur?" A hand gently shook his shoulder, and Padan woke with a start. Surely he could only have drifted off for a few minutes? The doorman leaned over him, face an implacable mask of politeness. "The guildmaster is free to see you now."
Etielle was dressed warmly against the damp air; Padan estimated the cost of the fur around his shoulders in the hundreds of chrisae. The merchant waved him to a seat.
"You have a question about Ransom? I understand he was murdered last night."
Padan nodded, eyes aching. The nap had done nothing to rest him.
"I'm trying to figure out who did it," he explained briefly. "Save the Swords some trouble." Etielle let a small smile flicker on his lips, well aware of the guards' reputation. "I'm trying to figure out who Ransom was working for this last run, get a place to start. You know?"
"Well, you, for one."
"If I'd killed him, I wouldn't be hauling myself around in this damn storm!" Padan's patience was beginning to wear thin.
"Of course," Etielle chuckled, unaffected by the old man's temper. "The information's no secret, although I suppose if one of his employers did have him slain, it might not be terribly healthy for me to go handing the list out. But," he said, stifling Padan's retort, "I'll be happy to tell you and the guards as well, should they ask." His expression was one of amusement. "His employers on this last run were yourself, Exalt Wolf Bryony and the mage Aravorn."
"Who's he?" Padan recognized Saldon's infamous poet and artist's name, of course, but the mage's was unfamiliar.
"He works for Eminate Marchosias, taking care of his business operations. The eminate purchases drugs, some of which he keeps and some of which he re-sells to the other nobility." Etielle let a small frown darken his features for a moment. "It has caused some unpleasantry in the guild, but he's unfortunately difficult to persuade. He has a villa on Terrace d'Avenent, on the Street of Crystal."
"Thanks. That's all I need to know." Padan stood up with satisfaction. Etielle raised a hand, forestalling his departure.
"You aren't the only one interested in his death, sieur. Ransom seems to have had loyal friends. He dealt rather regularly with one of our members, a pharmaceuticals merchant named Dain Amatus. I don't think Amatus had dealings with him at the time of his death," Etielle raised his palms in an elegant shrug, "but who can tell? He's hired somebody today to look into the murder, I've been informed. However, I'm afraid I don't know who."
"You keep a close eye on your guild's members," Padan noted dryly. "If you happen to see this Amatus, would you be so kind as to tell him I'd like to speak to him? He can leave me a message at the Broken Cask in the Haute Lucerne canals."
"Of course," the guildmaster said with a pleasant smile, jotting a quick note on a scrap of parchment before him. "I wish you luck. It's an uneasy business, this killing of traders."
"I'm doing my best." Despite the ache in his bones, Padan felt better than he had since finding his young friend's body in the warehouse last night. He hurried off to tell Caras and—hopefully—go home to get a few hours of sleep before investigating further.

Chaol clutched his heavy cloak closer as he walked through the ruined halls of the Manse. Wind whistled eerily through broken windows and crumbling mortar, and rain spattered the stained tiles of the hallway. Nobody else stirred in the halls in this weather, preferring the relative warmth of their rooms. We should fix this place up, he thought. It's always fine in the summer's heat, but one good storm will sweep the entire building off the terCaraciel cliff some day. The thought recurred to him every winter, although the Manse had weathered centuries of storms and would doubtless weather centuries more. They had taken their relentless toll on the building, though. He stopped at an intact wall and knocked on the door.
"Enter," a voice commanded. He stepped inside a room wreathed with bluish smoke and covered in rich tapestries and rugs. Rain pounded on the window, but this room was one of the few in the Manse that resisted the storm.
"A message." Chaol advanced and handed it to his master. Raven looked up through bloodshot eyes, long black hair hanging lankly over his narrow shoulders. The pipe before him and the ashes covering the rugs bore mute testimony to how he'd been spending the rainy day.
"Who's it from?"
"Exalt Bryony."
A brief spark of interest lit Raven's pale violet eyes and he languidly held out a gloved hand. Chaol dropped the message into it, careful not to touch the man.
"Hmm." Raven read it and lifted the pipe to his lips, drawing deeply. He thought a long moment, smoke trickling through his lips. "I think Peredur and Quire." He handed the paper to Chaol, who read it.
Lucair. 1,000 c. Method at your whim. B. It was written in the poet's trademark strained and overly embellished script. Chaol lifted his eyebrows, surprised.
"I wonder what's going on?" he asked. Raven half-closed his eyes.
"We don't ask. Just have Peredur and Quire carry it out. Wolf will pay the fee."
Chaol nodded, placing the letter on the table and leaving. Raven listlessly picked up his pipe again.

The next morning was as grey and damp as the previous. Caras irritably knocked on the door again.
"All right, all right!" She heard a chair squeak and the slow tapping of a cane approach the door. The lock clicked and Padan squinted out at her, wrapped in a heavy bathrobe. "Oh, I should have known."
"You're the one who wanted me to wake you up early," she said with saccharine sweetness. "So here I am, soaking and standing in a tavern at habell by-the-gods after second." She scowled at Padan, who was smiling at her litany of complaints.
"I guess you'd better come in, then," he said, letting her through the door. She looked sourly around the main room, where the hearth was cold and water stains ran down the walls.
"When are you going to admit that you're too old to live on the canals, and move to dry land?" she asked, shivering slightly.
"No older than you," Padan grumbled, returning to his bedroom to get changed. "And you're still around!" he shouted through the door.
"I'm younger at heart!" she shouted back, sharp tone hiding her amusement at the argument. She shook her head and sat down to wait. After a few minutes he emerged, wrapping a scarf around his neck to ward off the chill.
"Any messages for me downstairs?" he asked.
"Do I look like a message-girl?" she asked tartly. He rolled his eyes. "No. There weren't. What're we going to do today?"
"We?" Padan smiled. "What about your business?"
"No business in this weather," she grumbled. "Tourists are all gone for the winter, and no native's stupid enough to go out in a storm."
"No natives but us," he chuckled, glad of her company. She gave him a baleful look. "I want to talk to somebody named Aravorn today. He works for Eminate Marchosias, and I suspect he'll be easier to see than Bryony."
"Bryony!" Her eyes widened. "You're going to talk to that lunatic?"
"Now, now," Padan chided, "he's a poet, not a lunatic. And one of Saldon's more famous citizens, you might keep in mind."
"Famous or not," she snorted, "I remember the time he staggered naked and covered in dirt down the streets of Icanicas, spouting nonsense and scandalizing the tourists. He's a madman. Too many drugs—turned his brain to cheese."
Padan chuckled.
"Maybe so, but he's also a suspect. I figure we'll see him later today. I doubt he'd be up this early, anyway. Isn't sleeping late some sort of requirement for artists?"
"Here's to art," Caras mumbled as they pulled on raincloaks and left.

The two waited an hour and a half before being ushered into Aravorn's offices in a wing of Marchosias' large house. He greeted them coolly.
"You mentioned Ransom?" he asked, toying with a ring on his right hand.
"I was told you were one of the people whose goods were lost when he was killed. So am I," Padan said, waiting until Caras sat before seating himself. His joints hurt again today. "I want my goods back, and I assume you do, as well. Any information you can give me would help my investigation."
A dark look passed over the mage's face, but the observers could tell it wasn't directed at them.
"I'd like to find the man who killed him, myself," Aravorn said tightly. His hand clenched over a steaming mug of black tea. "I have ... a few suspicions."
"Who?"
Aravorn shook his head angrily.
"No, that's my business." He took a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself. "I don't want to accuse anybody without better proof. If I'm right...." He scowled. "If I'm right, then I'll be sure to return the stolen goods to whomever they belonged to."
"What was Ransom carrying for you?" Caras asked, blue eyes watchful in her wrinkled face. Aravorn scowled at her, but she met his gaze steadily.
"Alerian and Thaiss," he admitted at last. "You know I provide for the eminate."
"Who resells to others," Padan stated. Aravorn nodded sharply. "Who? It might be a clue."
"It's not important," Aravorn snapped. "And it's between Marchosias and his clients."
"One of whom could be a murderer," Padan pointed out. Aravorn shook his head again, dismissing the idea. Too easily, Padan thought. He does know who killed Ransom; or he has a good idea. He glanced at Caras, whose face was studiously neutral.
"We're not the only ones looking into Ransom's death," she said after a moment. "There's at least one other person besides the Swords who's interested in why a rather small-time trader and sometimes smuggler was killed. If you give us a list of what should have been in the shipment, we could share it around. That way, if somebody besides you finds the culprit first, we'll be able to tell which goods belong to whom."
Aravorn looked like he was going to refuse, then gave the two a sideways glance and reluctantly nodded.
"Of course," he said sourly. "I want to help this investigation as much as possible." He stood. "The records are in the other room. Excuse me."
As soon as he left the room, Caras stood and went to the other side of his desk.
"Cover me," she hissed. Padan nodded and turned to watch out the hallway. She quickly but carefully glanced over the papers on the mage's desk, then opened the desk drawers, glancing briefly at them before closing them again. Padan shifted nervously, each flicker of shadow in the hallway seeming to herald the mage-merchant's return. Caras gave a hiss of satisfaction and quietly closed the last drawer, swiftly returning to her seat. When Aravorn returned a minute later, both sat quietly and calmly. He handed them a list of drugs.
"Thank you," Padan said. "I hope you'll contact me if you discover the murderer. You can leave a message for me at the Broken Cask, Haute Lucerne."
"I know the place," Aravorn said shortly. Padan smiled and left with Caras. Behind them, the mage scowled at their good humor.
"Two notes," Caras said softly when they were in the streets again. They walked slowly in the rain, hoods close. "One said, 'it will be done fourth Orphiel,' and was signed by someone named Lucair. The other was dated Shadowing the second and said something like, 'The Alerien is here, your...'" she paused a moment to remember, "'your last payment was received and appreciated.' Something close to that, anyway. It was signed with an R. Ransom?"
"Had to have been," Padan agreed. "He was killed the night of the third, which means Aravorn could have done it—he knew the shipment was in. Damn!" Padan stopped, feeling a chill go down his spine. "Orphiel number four! That was the warehouse!"
"Now, wait a minute," Caras said, shaking rain from her eyes as she looked up at Padan. "This Lucair could simply have been supposed to pick up the goods. There's no proof that he's the murderer."
"We don't have any proof that he's not, either." Padan's hand tightened on his cane as he felt a rush of anger. "Come on—we'll ask Jarek about him."

The gems gleamed on the black cloth. Taryn set down his jeweler's glass and pursed his lips.
"I'll give you fifty chrisae each—that's two hundred." He looked up at the blond man. "You might get more than that from a jeweler, but he'd ask questions."
"I know," Lucair said impatiently. "We've done business before. Just give me the money."
Taryn leaned back, tucking his chin against his chest and looking speculatively at his client.
"I'm afraid you're going to meet a bad end, playing games like this during the winter," he said conversationally. "It's easy to pass off a crime during tourist season—lots of ships and strangers to muddy the waters. But it's a dangerous sport for the storm season."
"Don't lecture me!" Lucair clenched his teeth. "Just pay!"
"Whatever you want," Taryn shrugged expressively. "I'm just concerned. After all, one of our company has already come to a bad end. I do hate to see my business partners murdered."
Lucair waited wordlessly, eyes blazing in a taut face. Taryn gave him a last, meaningful glance before unlocking a small chest with a golden key. "Coin or writ?"
"Coin, damn you!" Lucair spat. Taryn smiled affably, suspicions proven. Coin was, of course, untraceable—and that meant these were, indeed, stolen goods. But then, he'd had little doubt. He counted out rolls of fifty coins each, placing them on the counter. Lucair pocketed the rolls without checking them and hurriedly left. Taryn carefully placed the gems into his spell-warded safebox, then pulled a letter from his desk drawer. He read it again thoughtfully, then lifted a pen.
Merchant Amatus, he began, I believe I have located the one you sought....

Lucair's shoulders ached and he walked quickly through the back streets of Terrace Hesiarchs. The whole thing had gone bad, he knew it. There was something wrong, and the fence was damnably right—this had been too dangerous to pull off during the winter. Nobody to frame, no chance of getting off the island during the storms....
"Lucair!"
He spun, heart pounding. A tall woman stood in the empty street behind him, a voluminous cloak swathed around her. She pulled down the hood and smiled at him. He didn't recognize her.
"What do you want?" he asked suspiciously. She cocked her head, careless of the rain that was beginning to soak her short-cropped hair.
"I just want to talk," she said, walking forward. Lucair took a nervous step back. "I was told you had drugs to sell, and I'm looking to buy. Was I told true?"
Lucair shook his head, unwilling to find out if she was telling the truth or lying. Besides, he'd already ditched that part of the shipment.
"No, nothing like that," he denied. "I don't deal drugs." He turned and began walking hastily away. Boots clattered behind him and he broke into a panicked run, sparing a quick glance behind him. The woman had tossed aside the cloak and came after him with one hand on the hilt of a previously hidden sword.
"Oh, shit," Lucair swore, a catch in his throat. He sped up, turning a corner into an alley. His foot skidded in a puddle, ankle turning. Despair swept him as he felt himself falling, hands outflung. The landing on hard cobbles jarred his teeth together. Strong hands gripped his hair, yanking his face up.
"What did you do with the shipment?" the woman asked harshly, bringing the sword's edge to his awkwardly bared throat.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Lucair gasped, desperate. She sneered.
"Aravorn knows you double-crossed him, you bastard. We can do this easy, or we can make it hurt. What did you do with the drugs?"
Hot tears stung Lucair's eyes as he realized there was no escape.
"Sold," he groaned, surrendering. "I sold them."
The woman swore.
"Too bad," she said. "Aravorn was afraid that might be the case."
The movement of steel against his throat was hardly noticeable, and the sudden rush of warmth against his wind-chilled skin startled him.

Lucair's apartment, Jarek had obligingly discovered for them in Records, was located in one of the more impoverished drystreets of Haute Lucerne. Caras and Padan knocked again.
"I don't think he's home," Padan said at last. "If this address is still even current."
"Guess we'll just have to break in," Caras said matter-of-factly. Padan shook his head.
"And if it isn't his place?"
"We'll leave. Nobody's home." She fixed him with a pointed stare. "And I don't even want to hear you start talking about legalities. I know very well what you were up to during the war. And since."
"I wasn't even going to bring it up," Padan demurred faintly, looking around. The rain was as good as darkness for obscuring them from the gaze of unwanted witnesses.
"Nobody's around to see us," Caras assured him dryly. "Now show me what you remember from your youth, eh? And try not to make any noise."
"I have held honest jobs," Padan protested, shaking the door. Typical of the area, the lock was good but the frame loose. Beside him, Caras was looking at him with skepticism. "Whenever they paid better." He threw his shoulder against the door, then winced and breathed a few silent but heartfelt curses as he remembered his age. He twisted the end of his cane, revealing the short stiletto it concealed. With Caras pushing as hard as she could against the door, he levered the tip of the dagger between the frame and the wall. After a few minutes' work, the wood splintered and the lock broke loose. With a nervous glance over his shoulder he pushed the door open.
"It's okay, nobody's around." Caras cackled. "You call that quiet, eh? Get a set of lockpicks, old man!"
"It worked, didn't it?" Padan protested, pushing the door open. They let themselves in, closing the door as well as possible behind them. The grey light from the windows gave everything a gloomy cast.
"Huh," Padan muttered, picking up a piece of folded paper on the floor.
"Pushed under the door?" Caras guessed, leaning forward to read it over his shoulder.
We must talk soon, it read, with a strange signet at the bottom. It looked familiar; Padan pulled out the list Aravorn had given him and checked the bottom. The symbols matched.
"Either Marchosias or Aravorn, then. No date?"
"It's dry, but water-stained." Padan examined the paper carefully. "That makes it sometime between the morning after the murder and early this morning."
"Then it was delivered after Lucair's note to Aravorn. And hasn't been found since." Caras looked around the room, slowly making the circuit of its narrow confines. "No sign he's packed up to leave, except I don't see any raincloak or boots here. Other clothes." She sniffed and glanced at the mess by the bed. "This Lucair," she noted with disapproval, "is not a very neat man."
"So he either vanished sometime after the first note was sent, or this was delivered very recently, maybe after he'd already left to run errands or something this morning. Whatever happened, though, he and the note missed each other." Padan absently rubbed his sore shoulder, regretting that moment of idiocy. "I wish I knew what business he and Ransom had together."
"Wishes never got anyone anywhere," Caras pointed out. "Fact is, Aravorn doesn't know where he is, either, from this note. And we know Aravorn suspects somebody of killing Ransom. Seems logical that he'd suspect the man who was supposed to see Ransom—for whatever reason—but, maybe, never returned?"
"It's a theory," Padan grudgingly admitted. "Sheer speculation, but it makes sense."
"So now we either hunt Lucair ourselves, or wait for Aravorn's hired help to find him."
"Let's find him ourselves," Padan suggested reflectively. "I don't trust Aravorn. There's still the chance that he hired Lucair to kill Ransom in the first place."

Quire ran into the Manse, breathing hard and soaked to the skin. Chaol caught him, the boy nearly collapsing in his arms. He felt the boy's heart pounding against his arms as if his chest would burst.
"What's wrong? Where's Peredur?" he demanded, fearing the worst. Quire shook his head, taking deep gasps. He must have tried to run all the way up to the Manse.
"Okay," the boy gasped. The master of apprentices relaxed minutely, letting the boy stand on his own. Quire crouched in the rain-drenched hall, arms wrapped around his chest and head down. After several long minutes he looked up.
"Someone killed Lucair!" he said, eyes wide. "We got there and he was in an alley with his throat cut, and there was a woman walking away real fast. We followed her to a mansion." He closed his eyes a moment, remembering. "Sharith 4, on Terrace d'Avenent. Peredur stayed to watch." He took a deep breath and lost it in a racking cough. When he recovered, he shook his head. "I ran back 'cause we don't know what to do."
Chaol stood.
"Get out of this hall and get changed into something dry," he ordered. "I'll talk to Raven."
The boy nodded and limped away. Chaol turned and strode up rain-dampened stone stairs to Raven's room.
"Sharith 4?" Raven inquired, gesturing toward a map on his wall. Chaol examined it, finger tracing Terrace d'Avenent's streets.
"Eminate Marchosias' mansion," he reported.
Raven reached for the silver goblet on the desk beside him, letting the papers in his hand slide into his lap.
"So, Marchosias and Wolf were after the same man." The guildmaster swirled the black Alerian liquor, gazing into its depths. "That sounds like drugs."
"What orders should I give the boys?"
"Have Peredur collect from Bryony," Raven said, drinking. His violet eyes were focused on some image only he could see. "Bryony doesn't need to know who actually killed Lucair."
"Very well," Chaol agreed, leaving. As he walked down the stairs again, he reluctantly smiled. Perhaps it wasn't the best example to teach the boys, but the guild could use the money. He stepped carefully over the pools of water that washed over the hall floors and decided to set one of the apprentices to breaking drainage holes in the walls. The place really was a disgrace.

The Cask was nearly empty; not surprising for a stormy winter night. Caras and Padan were heartily attacking a hot meal and warm toddies, appetite undiminished by their failure to find Lucair that day.
"I still think Aravorn killed Ransom," Padan stubbornly maintained. "And stop telling me we don't have any proof. Even if he didn't hold the knife himself, he must have ordered Lucair to do it."
"But why?" Caras countered between bites. The warm tavern room had flushed her cheeks and made her blue eyes sparkle with life. Padan almost found himself forgetting his argument. "Why would he be upset if Lucair did what he was supposed to?"
"I don't know," Padan admitted. "I wish we could have spoken to Bryony. Maybe Ransom hid something in his shipment that Aravorn wanted. I can't believe he killed him just so he wouldn't have to pay—the money isn't coming from his pocket, it's coming from the eminate's."
"And we mustn't forget that the eminate is also still a suspect," Caras reminded him. "Just because we found out the signet was Aravorn's doesn't mean that he couldn't have been carrying out Marchosias' orders."
"But murder? It just doesn't seem to make sense." Padan sighed and rubbed his shoulder. It still ached, although the heat of the Cask had nearly driven the arthritis pangs from his legs.
"Say," Caras pointed, "isn't that the young clerk we spoke to earlier?" Padan looked around to see Jarek pulling off his drenched raincloak and heading for their table.
"Mind if I sit down?" he asked, pulling up a chair. "I have some news for you." He sat down and leaned forward, expression intense.
"Please do," Caras interrupted. Jarek had the good grace to flush and smile apologetically.
"I'm sorry—I'm just certain you'll be interested. You were asking me about Lucair earlier? He's dead. Somebody killed him in an alley today. A mugging—maybe. His throat was cut."
"Well." Padan leaned back in his chair and met Caras' eyes. "Interesting. Are the Swords looking into it?"
"What do you think?" Jarek asked sourly. "The commander's never around, off with some new boyfriend of his—may he get the clap and die of it. But that's not all ... the merchant Dain Amatus was asking about Lucair, too. He's already heard the news."
"So it wasn't the guards who killed him, nor us, nor Amatus. That leaves Aravorn as our prime suspect," Caras said grimly. "I'm beginning to think you may be right, Padan."
"Aravorn?" Jarek looked from one to the other.
"I think he hired Lucair to kill Ransom. We don't have any direct proof, but it seems likely from the notes we've found. The problem is, we don't have a motive." Padan shook his head.
"Look," Jarek said hesitantly, "this sounds like it could be getting dangerous. Maybe you two'd better get out of it before anything else happens. I mean," he faltered under their skeptical gazes, "you two aren't young ... and both Amatus and Aravorn are pretty influential people."
"Amatus is on our side, I think," Padan said. "And Aravorn's only dangerous if his master is involved; otherwise he's as vulnerable to the law as anyone else in Saldon."
Jarek laughed bitterly.
"You mean he isn't rich. True enough, although I'll bet he could scrape up the funds for a reduced sentence. If you could prove anything. Don't forget, he's supposed to be a mage of some sort."
"I think tomorrow we need to talk to Amatus," Caras mused. Padan nodded his agreement.

Several terraces higher, the Laurel and Ivy's main room was considerably fuller. At one side table Taryn reached over to take Crystal's hand.
"I just need this favor for a while," he said pleadingly. "I don't dare keep the gems with me; they're too valuable, and my shop's not safe enough."
"I thought you had an ensorceled box to keep things like that?"
"I do." Taryn caught and held her eyes, letting her see his concern. "But I want to sell them to some pretty powerful people, and I'm afraid one of them may decide to avoid paying the price. They're powerful enough to avoid the simple wards on that safe. Crystal," he begged, "please keep them for me, just for a few days. There's no danger to you, I swear it. Nobody will even suspect that you have them, and they'll be safe from theft as long as they're in Lady Cylvan's mansion with you."
She softened, reaching out to brush his face with a gentle hand.
"If it's that important," she agreed. His smile was filled with relief and love.
"I think...." He hesitated. "I think that after this sale I'll have enough money to marry you. If you want." She flushed, then laughed to see the hopeful expression on his face.
"Of course I will," she whispered. "And you don't need money to ask me."
His delighted shout filled the busy tavern, and the patrons applauded as he lifted Crystal from her seat and swept her up in a joyful embrace.

Dain Amatus found Padan and Caras waiting for him when he entered the Mercantile Hall late in the morning. The rain had temporarily abated, but everyone agreed this was just a brief prelude before the real storms. Still, the dry day had been welcome enough to tempt him away from his work for a while, and he'd spent the morning enjoying the view from Terrace Chela'an and taking the long route to the Hall.
"Padan, Caras." Amatus smiled as he shook their hands. "I'm pleased to meet you. Come in."
He was a young man, simply clothed in soft black that complemented his slim form. His dark hair was cut short, his cheeks cleanshaven. Too young and inexperienced to be a merchant, Padan thought. He must have inherited the job; and not have worked at it long enough to develop a trader's cynicism.
"I understand you've been looking into Ransom's death, too," Amatus said solemnly after the initial pleasantries had been exchanged. "Why don't we compare notes?"
"Well," Padan said with a touch of caution despite his immediate impulse to trust the merchant, "we know he was carrying goods for myself, Exalt Bryony and the mage Aravorn, who probably ordered for Eminate Marchosias. Silks for me, Alerian and Thaiss for Aravorn, and we still haven't figured out what he was bringing to Bryony. The exalt isn't taking visitors. The drugs were taken. The silk was still there, but ruined."
Amatus nodded.
"I haven't found out much more, although my sources indicate that whatever Bryony ordered had been brought from Candor. I'm still searching for a receipt, but the ship that carried Ransom's goods left several days ago to avoid being stranded here over the storm season." The merchant shrugged. "I would like to see the port records, but the port master has the flu and I haven't been able to reach him."
"I don't think it matters," Padan said dismissively. "My theory is that Aravorn had Ransom killed. Aravorn had contact with someone named Lucair, directing him to the warehouse Ransom was using to store supplies in until delivery. Then Aravorn apparently lost contact with Lucair. And now Lucair's dead."
"I can add to that," Amatus said quietly. "I have an acquaintance who sometimes does business in stolen goods; a fence. He reported that this Lucair approached him with some drugs similar to those Ransom was supposed to have been bringing in for Count Marchosias. He questioned Lucair about their provenance, and Lucair left without selling, apparently very nervous. What you said seems to tie in with his story."
"You still don't have any proof that Aravorn was connected with Ransom's murder," Caras pointed out. "Lucair might have bought them on the Night Market."
"I agree that we have to be careful about making unfounded accusations," Amatus replied, regarding her with thoughtful eyes. "But neither should we ignore what appears to be a telling set of circumstances. What we need, of course, is evidence."
"Any suggestions?" Padan asked shortly. "The guard's been no help."
"I'll see what pressure I can bring on Commander Shard," Amatus volunteered. "And I'll contact you should anything occur. You might care to see if you have any better success than I in reaching the port master for a list of goods."
"Right." Padan stood up and stuck out a hand. "We'll keep in touch."
"I can be reached here, and I'll leave messages for you at the Cask." Amatus firmly shook both Padan's and Caras' hands. "I'm very glad to meet you both."
"Seems like a nice person," Caras said approvingly as they left the hall, looking up into a clearing sky. "So what do we do now, old man?"

Eirian tapped the opened parchment envelope on the arm of his chair, brown eyes fixed on a space somewhat short of the fireplace.
"Will there be a reply, exalt?"
"A moment." The High Lord's Mage lifted his leonine head to frown slightly at the servant. The man stood confidently, aware the scowl wasn't directed at him. "How was this delivered?"
"By messenger, exalted, a young lady. She informed us she had been hired in the Yardarm and Sun, where she serves tables, by a cloaked man with a youthful voice. She didn't know who he was, but admitted she carried three more letters; to the Necromancer, Bryony and Harquane."
"An auction." Eirian slowly nodded. "Did she say where the bids were to be sent?"
"She asked that we leave them with the bartender of the Yardarm, exalted. She had been instructed to tell you all bids must be in by Shadowing 7; tomorrow, milord."
"Intriguing, isn't it?" Eirian leaned back in his chair, turning the paper over as if seeking more information from it. After a moment he looked up again as the patiently waiting man. "Bring me my cloak and boots, and tell Trina I'll be out awhile."
"Yes, exalted."
Half an hour later the mage rode into the courtyard of the Manse. A cloaked boy took the reins while another held his stirrup as he dismounted. The sun was low on the horizon, and the day's clear skies didn't look like they would last the night. He took a moment to enjoy the view from the top of Saldon before turning to the man heading toward him.
"Exalt Eirian," Chaol greeted him as the gelding was led away to the Manse's crumbling stables. "We weren't expecting you tonight."
"I need to see Raven."
"Of course." Chaol turned, leading the mage through the ruins and up the stairs. "I told him you were riding up." He knocked at the door.
"So, Eirian, what brings you from the warmth of your hearth?" Raven smiled as the large man entered, letting genuine pleasure warm his eyes. The mage grinned, forebearing from clasping his eccentric friend's thin wrist.
"I had a few questions, and thought I might as well come up and see you before the rain begins in earnest." He pulled up a comfortably padded chair and settled himself. "This place is too damp in the winter, Raven. You should get your boys to fix it up in the summer and save yourself a bout of coughing sickness." He filled a pipe and lit it with a spark of flame struck from the air.
"I like being able to see the ocean," Raven murmured. Eirian laughed.
"I do, too, but do you have to see it through the walls?"
"You had a reason to come up?" Raven asked, changing the subject with a trace of irritation. Eirian sighed. Raven never had liked to let people too close—to his flesh or his mind.
"As a matter of fact, I did. I received an interesting letter about a quabell ago. Brief, but to the point." He pulled it out of his cloak pocket and read it aloud. "'Taking bids on demongems. Taryn.'"
"Taryn's a fence. Relatively honest."
"So I should assume these gems are stolen, and he's offering them for resale?"
"Unquestionably." Raven reached for his own carved bone pipe and pouch of tobacco. "Demongems are?"
"Reputed to have all sorts of arcane powers, particularly over the realms of sleep and awakening."
"That does cover it all," Raven noted drily as he filled his pipe. Eirian shook his head.
"Not wakefulness—awakening. Meaning that such stones can bring enchanted sleepers to consciousness, or put others to sleep; twist dreams into nightmares and vice-versa. And more."
"So?"
"So apparently this Taryn is offering them in a closed auction to myself, the astrologer Harquane, Bryony and the Necromancer. An unwise man could use the demongems to loose the powers of hell—there are more things sleeping in the world than fair princesses, Raven."
"I know." Raven gave him a long, brooding look, eyes darkened. "Do you seek advice, or my guild's services?"
"Advice." Eirian sighed, watching his friend with a twinge of sympathy. He'd once learned what nightmares haunted the man's memories. "I was hoping you might know who the previous owner of the gems was, and who might be looking for them should I acquire them."
"Well," Raven's lips tilted in a slight smile, "I could tell you a story, but I won't swear it's true. Of course, I'd be betraying my clients to do so."
"You know I'm discreet."
"I remember." Raven said thoughtfully, remembering a masque and a long-kept secret from the days when they'd both been much younger. "Then listen:
"Four days ago a man was killed and a variety of goods he was to deliver were stolen. Later, a wealthy noble noted for his chemical and arcane experimentation, as well as his literary efforts, contracted for the death of a very minor street-rat, paying a great deal of gold for it. But someone who worked for another rich man who sometimes sells drugs—and sometimes hired the slain man to bring in his shipments—hired a mercenary to kill the street-rat who got to the street-rat before the first man's men could. And today," Raven touched a folded piece of parchment on the table before him, "a respected member of the Mercantile who also sometimes deals in pharmaceuticals has contracted for the apprehension of the mage who belongs to the rich man whose mercenary slew the street-rat."
Eirian gave Raven a sour look, laboriously keeping track of the actors in his friend's story. He knew his friend was deliberately riddling to tease him.
"And you think the gems are involved," he summarized.
"What if," Raven mused, "all this turmoil wasn't merely over a few rare drugs from the south, which after all can be replaced with a minimum of effort, but over a set of exotic stones the likes of which would very much interest a poet whose work deals in nightmare images and a petty mage interested in advancing himself in his master's service?"
"Theory."
"I admit as much." Raven took a long drag from his pipe, releasing the smoke slowly. "But an entertaining little plot, isn't it?"
"There are pieces missing."
"I look forward to hearing you fill them in."
"No doubt." Eirian thought over the tale, placing names on the characters with little effort. "This other mage, why does the merchant want him captured? That sort of thing is the Swords' area."
"I have no idea."
"Don't have it done. I'd like to talk to him myself."
"Eirian," Raven gently protested, "there's money involved."
"I'll pay you what the merchant would have."
"Your wish is my command. Excuses can be made...."
Eirian shook his head at Raven's self-satisfied expression.
"One more thing, Raven. The chancellor-exalt has asked me to invite you to the Great Masque on Shadowing 9. He says High Lord Lucan is eager to meet you again ... in the light, this time." He dropped a heavy parchment envelope on the table.
Raven gave him a look of profound distaste and the mage laughed, standing and picking up his cloak.
"You think about it," he advised his friend. "I'm going to find some place that's a little less drafty to spend my evening; and perhaps I'll find the time to have a word with your 'petty mage'." He executed an extravagantly formal bow that drew a smile from Raven. "Thank you ever so much for your information. Once more I find myself in your debt."
"Good night, Eirian."
"Good night, my friend."

The rains had started again, before dawn. Padan climbed out of the rowboat and onto the dock cursing the weather and the news that had made him leave his warm apartments to dare the elements.
Caras was polishing an old portmanteau, hair tied back from her face and hands dirty from the polish that escaped the cloth rag. Padan smiled a moment, watching her, then opened the door to her shop loudly.
"Good to see you working for a change," he said in greeting.
"You should try working someday—for a change," she snapped back. He doffed his cloak and sank into one of the chairs by the stove. She looked over her shoulder with a scowl. "What do you think this is, a spectator sport?"
"If you'll bow, I'll applaud." He smiled, then let the smile fade as he remembered why he'd come here. "Amatus sent me a message this afternoon."
"Oh?" She let the rag drop and wiped her hands on her work apron, turning to face him. "Well, spit it out."
"He says Aravorn disappeared. Late last night or early this morning. There were signs of a struggle in his office. And Jarek says Eminate Marchosias is forcing the Swords to investigate."
"Good for him," Caras muttered, gazing thoughtfully at Padan. Finally she shook her head. "We missed something," she sighed. "Somebody else who's involved."
"Bryony?"
"Maybe." She sat in the chair next to him, and both contemplated the possibilities in silence.
"I want to know exactly what Ransom was shipping for Bryony," Padan said at last. "It's the last clue available."
"Amatus hasn't had a chance to talk to the port master yet?"
"He didn't mention it in his message." Padan frowned. "I guess we should go down and try to find out."
Caras sighed, looking out the window at the pouring rain.
"I don't know how I got involved in this thing, anyway," she muttered, standing and untying her work apron. "But I'll bet it was your fault."

Aravorn screamed, back arching and wrists straining at the rune-covered manacles that held him fast against the floor. Eirian tapped his pipe out against the arm of his chair, rubbing his eyes with one hand. They were red from a long, sleepless night.
"Wrong answer," he said, irritated. "I really don't have much more time to play questions with you, Aravorn. I have an important dinner with High Lord Lucan tonight, and I need to send a message to the Yardarm before dusk. So why don't you cooperate and do us both a favor?"
"Bastard...." Aravorn let his head drop limply to the stone floor, unable to summon more resistance than that half-whispered word. Eirian nodded.
"Well, yes, but I've managed to rise above it. Now, I want to know—why did you hire a mercenary to kill that man? Lucair, you said his name was?"
"Go to hell...." Aravorn screamed again, twisting madly against his bonds. Fresh blood trickled down his crimson-stained arms as skin tore against relentless steel.
Eirian dropped his head into his hands, feeling the headache pound. There has to be a more efficient way, he thought sourly. Damn the man for having sufficient training to counter his attacks, anyway; a normal bureaucrat would have broken hours ago. He wondered if it would be unforgivably gauche to arrive late to the High Lord's table. The day was getting on.
"Why did you hire the mercenary?"
Aravorn stared up at the grey stone ceiling, skin waxen, every nerve screaming for a moment of rest. He wouldn't survive the afternoon, not after seeing the peculiar renovations Eirian had made to his cellar. He wouldn't live to tell the tale of his questioning. Defiance was seeming increasingly foolish, compared to a quick death.
Pain racked him again. Aravorn collapsed when it passed, vision swimming.
"He double-crossed me," he breathed, surrendering. Eirian looked up, bloodshot eyes regarding him with renewed interest.
"You had originally hired him to do what?"
Head lolling, Aravorn felt sweat sting his eyes and the open wounds on his wrists and ankles. Respite from pain was sweet.
"Kill Ransom," he admitted, savoring the relief.
"Because...." Eirian prompted. "Really, I'm too tired for this appalling lack of loquacity."
"Because I wanted the money."
"From the demongems."
Aravorn turned his head, looking up at his captor blankly.
"What demongems?" he asked. "I wanted the money from the drugs." Eirian frowned. "I had debts!" he screamed. It didn't do any good.
Several minutes later Eirian leaned back in the chair, running his hands through his hair. He was convinced the man sprawled senselessly in front of him really had revealed all he knew. Which meant this Lucair had taken the gems for himself. And sold them to the fence Taryn, it appeared. Damn! Eirian glared at Aravorn. He'd been wasting time.
A short word opened the manacles. He'd have to work fast to dispose of the body and still arrive to dinner on time. Sometimes he envied Raven's simple existence.

"Demonstones?" Amatus shook his head. "I've never heard of them. Wait." He strode out of their private meeting room, leaving Padan and Caras to glance curiously at each other. Their trip to the port master had paid off, but neither of them knew what the entry Demonstones, 4, from Wythucarn University, Candor really meant. It was only a matter of luck that they'd found Amatus in the Hall doing paperwork this late in the evening; he told them he'd rather stay in the Hall's warmth working than relax in his own empty house in this gloomy weather.
The stranger Amatus ushered into the room some time later was a strange-looking man with cinnamon-colored skin and hawkishly narrow features.
"Padan, Caras, this is Falsal. He trades in magic items; a very specialized field of interest," Amatus added unnecessarily. The dark man inclined his head.
"You have asked of demonstones," he said, his accent identifying his homeland as Bahr al-Raml. "These are, I think, also called demongems, and they are very rare." At Amatus' gesture, he sat in a chair facing them.
"What are they?" Caras asked.
"Blue gemstones, so big." Falsal measured about an inch with his fingers. "Very clear, very sharp in color. They were once mined in Arquian's Shadowpoint Mountains, but the last mine, it was reportedly tapped out one hundred and thirty-two years ago," he said with confident precision. "There are three in your Mynedd Palace, and your Onieromancer claims to own six. The Enclave clan of my land owns two. Twenty-two more are known to be owned by private collectors throughout your Dominions." He looked sharply at them. "I tell you this, it is to make a point. There are very few demongems left, and they are extremely valuable. Their rarity, it is what makes them valuable in their own right, but it is their crystalline matrix that makes them so sought-after. It is receptive to certain forms of magic. Unfortunately," he added calmly, "the magic it is particularly suited for is often used to evil ends. Demons, they are called, dreams, they are sent to kill, and so on."
Padan took a deep breath, suddenly understanding that he was in far over his head. Next to him, Caras pursed her lips in a silent whistle. Ransom, he asked wordlessly, why didn't you take more precautions? Didn't you realize what it was you were carrying?
Amatus thoughtfully leaned back in his chair, expression somber.
"Does it take much understanding of magic to use them?" he asked. Falsal shrugged expressively.
"I am no sorceror. These gems, they are so expensive only very rich mages may purchase them, and to be rich, a mage must be powerful. But perhaps a weak mage can use them, should they find one in the street. I cannot be sure."
Amatus started to say something, then caught himself.
"Thank you, Falsal," he said, standing. "You've been very helpful. I appreciate you leaving your work to talk to us."
The foreign merchant stood, eyeing the three shrewdly.
"If these gems, they should show up," he said, "they will be very dangerous to own. I know honest men and women who would be willing to purchase these. Should they show up," he added again with a small smile.
"I'll keep that in mind," Amatus said dryly, ushering the merchant out. Falsal inclined his head to the room and left, amusement in his eyes.
"Hell," Padan swore after he left, "this isn't just a mugging turned murder. This is mage stuff. We don't have a chance."
Caras sympathetically patted his arm, although her own expression was grim.
"You're right," Amatus agreed, standing in the doorway. "It's time to report what we've found to the Swords."
"Oh, that'll help," Caras said sourly.
"Commander Shard will hear us out as soon as he gets in tomorrow morning," Amatus said firmly, "or the Mercantile will know why."

Crystal started awake, heart pounding and hands clutching the down-filled blankets. The other maidservants in the room were still asleep, though storm winds rattled the shutters and rain pounded against the roof and walls. She sat up, relieved.
Last night her sleep had been disturbed with nightmares, too. And the nightmares...she shuddered, the images from her dreams too frighteningly fresh to be comfortably remembered.
It's not the wine, she thought as she laid back down and drew the covers over her shoulders. That's what I thought last night, but I didn't touch it tonight.
Just stress, she nervously reassured herself. I just have too much on my mind; the weather, work, Taryn, getting married. She took a deep breath and tried to think about Taryn, something to calm her and let her sleep. Her hand crept under the pillow and closed around the pouch of jewels hidden there. Perhaps I'll be less nervous when I'm not responsible for these any more, she thought sleepily, eyes closing again. Some time later she started to whimper in fear.

"Padan, Caras. Merchant Sieur Amatus." Jarek looked haggard despite the cup of black tea he emptied as they walked in. The morning was as black as midnight, rain brutally pounding the streets and buildings. Padan carried a small lantern that he set on the corner of Jarek's desk as the three pulled down the hoods of their cloaks. Water dripped from their clothes to the floor, which was already damp with scattered puddles.
"I want to see Commander Shard," Amatus said without preamble. Jarek nodded, rubbing his eyes.
"You've heard, then?"
"Heard what?"
The clerk looked up as the door opened again, letting in the night watch, just off duty. The fire flickered wildly before a cursing guard slammed the door shut. They talked quietly among themselves, pulling off cloaks and unfastening weapons.
"Aravorn. We found his body late last night in Croft Bay. The wind and waves blew it ashore, I guess. Fresh."
Padan paled, shaken. Caras shivered and edged closer to the desk.
"How did he die?" Amatus asked, looking apprehensive.
"Neck broken. There were open sores on his wrists and ankles; looked like fresh manacle chafing. No other marks on his body, and no clothes. Eminate Marchosias is pressing the case, and there's to be a full investigation." He shook his head. "This is just between us, of course."
"Of course," Amatus agreed. "Where's the commander, then?"
"In his office, writing reports. Just a minute, I'll tell him you're here."
"Could Bryony have done it?" Caras asked softly as the clerk left his desk. "They were his ... and he's mad."
Padan shrugged, leaning heavily on his cane. The aches in his joints had kept him awake most of the night, and the damp and the cold were conspiring to keep him in constant, dull pain. Caras searched his face closely, then laid her hand over his a moment. Behind them, metal clattered against wood as the off-duty Swords stripped off their mail and weapons, dropping them in oil-filled barrels.
"He'll see you." Jarek returned and winced as a sharp gust of wind violently rattled the shutters. He showed the three to the door behind his desk.
Shard was a handsome man, with the dark skin of a full-blooded Saldonian, made darker by years of outdoor patrols. He wore a chainmail tunic almost covered by a thick wool jacket and scarf, and a well-used longsword leaned on the wall behind his chair. Padan guessed he hadn't gotten much, if any, sleep the night before, from the shadows under his eyes and the stubble on his cheeks. Nevertheless, the Sword commander seemed alert as he gave the trio a long, measuring gaze.
"Come in and sit down," he said. They did.
"I'm Padan Vair. This is Caras Shalin, an independent antique merchant, and Dain Amatus, a merchant in the Mercantile. We're here about the murders."
Shard nodded sharply.
"Jarek told me."
"We have a theory about why the murders are being committed, but we don't know who's actually doing the killing," Amatus said. With Caras and Padan adding the occasional comment, the young merchant summarized their findings. Shard listened closely, hands folded under his chin.
"The only suspect we have right now—the only one involved in the shipment who's alive besides Padan—is the Exalt Wolf Bryony, who ordered the gems in the first place," Amatus concluded. Shard rubbed the back of his neck and leaned back in his chair.
"Let's see these notes," he ordered. Padan handed over Aravorn's list and the note to Lucair. The commander gave them a cursory examination before dropping them on his desk. "You can see the port master's records in his office," Padan volunteered. Shard nodded.
"Oh, I'm inclined to believe you," he replied. Caras raised her eyebrows. "Of course, I can't accuse anyone without more proof than this, but there's a pattern here. If nothing else," he added, "it'll keep the eminate happy for a while." He sat up and pulled on fingerless swordsman's gloves. "I'd rather it weren't Bryony behind the killings," he mused as he buckled his sword around his waist. "He's too influential to find guilty."
"If the Swords even dared arrest him," Caras sneered. Amatus placed a cautionary hand on her shoulder that she irritably shook off.
"A Sword who makes a habit of arresting the aristocracy isn't a Sword for long," Shard said after a tension-filled moment. "They'll have him set aside, and put a more corrupt man in his place."
"Is that what happened to your predecessor?" she retorted. Padan flinched, but stood up as Shard's fist clenched. Amatus stood with him, both flanking Caras.
"I hope you remember these words the next time you need the Swords' help," the commander said flatly. Caras defiantly lifted her chin.
"The Swords haven't helped me in the past; I don't think I'll notice any difference, will I?"
"I think this has gone far enough," Amatus interceded calmly. "Commander, Caras, we have more important business to attend to right now." The black-clad merchant gave them both a sharp look, and the two backed down. Padan sensed the argument had only been postponed, not laid to rest. He sighed.
"Let's visit the exalt," he suggested, shuffling between Caras and the commander to the door. After a moment's pause, the other three followed him.

The red-haired man clutched the letter tightly, blue eyes blazing.
"You sent a bid?" he asked.
"Of course," Harquane smiled. "But I'm sure mine wasn't the highest, not with the likes of the high mage and the Necromancer bidding. That's why I called you. I thought the cult might have an idea." His smile wasn't pleasant, and the red-haired man shared it.
"You did well. With these we could summon the avatar and consolidate our position here. It is," he added thoughtfully, "a good time to make this move. No ships will be coming to the island during the storm season. Nobody will know there has been a change in government until spring." His eyes glittered. "It would be nice to hold our ceremonies in the palace instead of the caverns, for a change."
"Do you know who this Taryn person is?"
"Not yet, but we will," the red-haired man said confidently. "This is an unexpected windfall, Harquane. We will remember." The astrologer let satisfaction touch his smile, pleased with himself.
"We don't have much time to waste. We'll contact you as soon as possible," the stranger said, pocketing the short message from Taryn. "Until then, keep your eyes and ears open. One of the others might get the gems before us, and we would have to change our plans."
Harquane bowed his head.

Gaining admission to see Exalt Bryony was a time-consuming process, and by the time the four entered his study, Shard was trembling with rage. They'd been kept outside the door in the downpour for half an hour while the servant who'd answered left to consult the head servant, who eventually led them into the hall, but then made them wait there another twenty minutes.
"It's about time!" the commander burst out, heedless of formalities. "I don't care who you are, when the law calls, you answer!"
Caras stifled a smile, thinking about the few times she'd cooled her heels in the Swords' headquarters. Padan shot her a warning look. The commander was not a safe man to bait.
"You are here and I have answered," the poet said calmly. He was impeccably dressed in a loose silk blouse and black pants, nothing in his attire indicating that he noticed the chill in the air. The study was slowly warming from the fire, but it had obviously only just been built. Padan sat down in a chair by the hearth without waiting for an invitation; Bryony didn't seem to notice. "I was asleep when you called."
"Did you murder Aravorn?"
If Shard had hoped to rattle the poet, he failed. Bryony pursed his lips, looking slightly puzzled.
"I'm afraid I don't know the man...."
"He works for Eminate Marchosias. Perhaps you know him?" Shard asked sarcastically.
Bryony thought a moment, then shrugged.
"My contacts with the eminate are few, commander. We don't tend to move in the same circles."
"You both use recreational drugs."
"Ah!" Bryony looked enlightened. "I'm afraid that if this has anything to do with my little vice, you should talk to Tull, my man. He takes care of those arrangements. As I said, I seldom see Marchosias."
"And Ransom?"
Bryony's grey eyes narrowed slightly.
"Who?"
Caras walked over to Padan, content for the time being to let Shard question the noble. Despite her professed dislike for the eccentric poet, she was fascinated by this glimpse into his life and let her eyes wander around the small room with active interest. He was a collector of exotica, and her experienced judgement evaluated some of the items in the room as worth their weight in gold coin. Amatus waited slightly behind the commander, eyes fixed on Bryony's face, apparently unimpressed by the display of wealth and twisted taste.
"True," Bryony admitted with a grudging air. Caras turned back to the conversation. Shard was standing closer to the desk, as if to force the poet to look up at him. Instead, Bryony turned his gaze out the window, staring at the patterns of rain on the glass. "I ordered the stones from the university to complement my collection." He waved a hand at the curios on the shelves around them. "As inspiration, perhaps. They cost a great deal of money, and I'm very anxious to have them back." His eyes darkened. "If I find out who engineered their disappearance...." He smiled coldly at his reflection in the glass.
"You did no investigating yourself?" Shard asked skeptically. Padan watched Bryony's face tighten a moment.
"A man offered me certain drugs for sale a day after the murder that I suspected were part of the lost shipment Ransom brought in—when the theft occurred, my man informed me he'd intended to buy drugs from Marchosias that had been lost. I had the man followed, but he avoided my people. That's all."
"Who?"
"He gave his name as Lucair. I haven't seen him since."
"He's dead. Throat cut."
"Indeed?" Bryony raised an eyebrow. "I admit I'm not terribly dismayed by his death. I still suspect he knew something about my stolen gems."
Padan and Caras exchanged glances. The nobleman didn't seem surprised to hear of the murder; in fact, Padan imagined he'd seen a glint of satisfaction in the poet's eyes.
"And you've heard nothing about the gems since?"
Bryony gazed into the rain, one finger stroking his cheek.
"Absolutely not," he said at last. "But I have people looking for them. I know the gems must still be in Saldon; there's been no ship out since Ransom's murder. They can't be mistaken for another kind of gem by one who knows what to look for. No, I've heard nothing," the poet repeated, "but when they do turn up—and they will—I'll be there to claim them."
"You'll report their reappearance to the Swords, of course," Shard said sarcastically. Bryony smiled.
"Of course, commander."
The guard nodded and turned, abruptly leaving without another word. Padan sighed and stood, walking out with Caras. Amatus waited until they left, watching Bryony closely. The poet seemed to forget his presence, staring thoughtfully at the window. Finally Amatus, too, followed the others out.
"So that's it?" he asked Shard when he caught up in the street. The commander shrugged, walking swiftly to the High Lord's Stair.
"I intend to keep an eye on him, but there isn't much to do without evidence. He's not going anywhere." Shard jerked his cloak closer, head bowed against the slanted sheets of rain. He sounded tired as he took the stairs down to Terrace Hesiarchs. "I'll send someone to talk to Tull and draw up a full report."
"And in the meantime, there's a murderer loose!" Amatus shouted, finally losing his patience.
"Then you find him!" Shard snapped, looking up long enough to glare at the merchant. Padan flinched, half-expecting the volatile commander to reach for his weapon, but Shard seemed to have better self-control than that. "I have nothing to work with!"
"You will," Amatus promised tightly. "Even if we have to do your job for you."
"Unpleasant man," Caras said with finality as Shard strode away.
"He has a point," Padan noted, trying to be fair. "We seem to have come to a dead end."
"Let's think about it over a hot drink in the Hall," Caras suggested. "Amatus can pay, and we'll think of something we missed."
Amatus smiled, ushering them forward with good grace, down the stairs where Shard's figure had already vanished in the grey rain.

Crystal pulled her raincloak tightly around her as she closed the servants' gate. She'd begged a few hours off to visit the Tabernacle of Bel. The nightmares worried her, and she needed to talk to one of the priests, ask for help. If stress was causing them, maybe he'd be able to offer some advice. And if the dreams were some sort of dark vision, then the priests could bespeak it for her and tell her what to do to get rid of them. And, she thought, sliding one hand into her skirt pocket to touch the small, cool stones rattling loosely there, they could tell her if the dreams came from a third source. It hadn't escaped her notice that the nightmares hadn't started until Taryn had entrusted the stones to her care. If they were dangerous, he needed to be warned. She shuddered and pulled her hand away to close the cloak's neck against her downpour.
Deep in her own thoughts, she didn't notice the other passerby until he collided into her. She shrieked and he grabbed her arms to keep her from falling, shaking his lowered hood back from his eyes.
"I'm so sorry!" he said, anxiously straightening her cloak around her and making ineffectual gestures of contrition. "I wasn't looking where I was going, the rain was so bad I didn't think anyone else would be out! It's all my fault!"
His apologies and sincere embarrassment forced a smile out of her. He was a handsome youth, with dark hair and clear blue eyes filled with alarm and concern.
"I'm all right," she assured him kindly. "I wasn't paying any attention to the street, either."
"If you're sure..." he shivered and pulled his hood forward again as rain began to stream down his face. "I'm really terribly sorry!"
She shook her head, amused and somewhat relieved to have something to think about besides the nightmares. The stranger made a few more apologies before backing away. She continued toward the temple with lighter spirits.
As soon as she turned the corner, Cathed hurried down a side street and ducked under a building's eaves, looking around. Nobody else was in the street. He risked a glance and gasped.
Two brilliant blue gems lay in his palm.
"Damn!" He shoved them back in his pocket. There was no way the girl was going to miss the robbery, and no way she was going to shrug off the loss. A few aes, that was one thing; but if these were real, she was going to have every Sword on the island looking for him. The young thief swore again. Who'd have thought a young woman like that would be carrying riches like these? They couldn't belong to her, not unless she were some noble's paramour. He closed his eyes, leaning against the damp wall and trying to concentrate.
If they were stolen, he'd have time. She wouldn't dare call the guard on him. But she'd have friends.
I have to sell them, fast, he realized. Get them off me before she figures out they're missing. Then lay low and hope the guards—or whomever—pick them up on someone else. He pushed himself away from the building and headed quickly to the stairs that would take him to a lower terrace.

Padan, Caras and Amatus sat in the main hall, talking desultorily about trade during the winter months. Several hours had passed since they'd left the Swords' commander. The rain had continued unabated, and the Mercantile Hall was virtually empty as the merchants stayed home with friends and family. It was, Amatus explained, always a slow season anyway, with no ships or tourists.
"I never knew Bryony was such a collector," Caras was saying. "I'll have to remember that next time something unusual turns up on my shelves. Maybe he'd give me a better price than those drylanders who don't know Sandsea enamel from Anseis glaze."
"You might have luck, at that," Amatus said. "He doesn't like to trade with the Mercantile. For some reason, holding prices to a reasonable level seems to offend our good poet."
"Reasonable?" Padan rapped his cane on the floor, scowling. "There's nothing reasonable about paying a chrisos for a wool jacket! When I went looking for a new jacket last month I was appalled at the prices! You'd think wool had to be mined, instead of cut off the back of any sheep that happens to be wandering by!"
"But there aren't any sheep on Saldon; we can't support them," Amatus reasoned. "So the price has to include packaging, shipping, port tithes and workmanship, as well as the cost of the raw material."
Padan's counter argument was drowned out by a pounding at the Hall's door. The doorman opened it to reveal a drenched Sword huddled on the steps. Amatus stood, looking expectantly at the guard.
The Sword shook herself off and spoke quietly to the doorman, who gestured toward their corner. Other heads turned back to their business. Caras and Padan straightened, the old man's heart leaping as the guard drew near. Maybe they've caught the murderer, he thought hopefully.
"Vair, Shalin, Merchant Sieur Amatus?"
"We are," Padan answered for them, searching her eyes for a sign of the news. She wore a mask of studiously neutrality, a Sword on duty.
"Commander Shard sent me to update you on the case. Another man has been found murdered, a pawnshop owner and fence named Taryn Dominik. The commander believes the murder is linked to Ransom's death. He wishes to see Merchant Sieur Dain Amatus at once."
Padan closed his eyes, mood darkening again. Caras rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, sharing his emotions.
"Taryn." Amatus was pale, standing. "How did he die?"
"Commander Shard will give you the details he feels are necessary," she said professionally.
"We'll get our cloaks," Caras said.
The signs of Shard's exhaustion were more evident when they walked into his office a second time. He was gulping a mug of black tea and writing.
"Come in, sit down," he ordered, looking up. The shadows under his eyes had deepened.
"Taryn—what happened?" Amatus asked, face strained.
"He was murdered. You were doing business with him, Amatus?"
"He was the man I asked to look into Ransom's death, to tell me if any of Ransom's goods showed up on the Night Market," the merchant admitted, sinking into a chair. "He was a good friend."
"You often do business with fences?"
Amatus didn't rise to the bait, too upset.
"It happens," he said. "If something's missing from a shipment, we like to know where to start looking. He was honest, for a man with his sideline."
"Did he write you back? Tell you anything?"
"He said a man named Lucair had offered him some drugs for sale."
"He lied," Shard stated callously. "Lucair sold the drugs to Tull, Bryony's manservant. Taryn was offered the demongems—and he bought them."
Amatus gave him a disbelieving look, then dropped his eyes to stare at the floor. Padan shook his head sympathetically. The young merchant was having a rough week of it.
"Tell me what happened," he said at last, looking up. Shard sat back, stifling a yawn.
"He was murdered. Neighbor heard pounding sounds and went over to complain. He found the body crucified to an inside door. Throat cut, wrists cut." Shard looked grim, lines appearing around his mouth. He was older than he looked, Padan realized. Or perhaps his job had simply aged him beyond his years. Amatus sat motionless, still in shock. "Looked like the Cult of Caren. Heard of it?"
All three nodded, reflecting on what they'd heard of the religion that had, despite Dake's Truth and the laws of the Dominions, been outlawed on Saldon.
"The god of death, right?" Caras said. Shard shook his head.
"Not quite. Caren has three faces. Birth, death, and rebirth. Most of his churches stress the first and third faces, and they're alright. Even when they consider him the god of the dead. Serves a useful purpose and all that." He rubbed his face, the leather of his fingerless gloves rasping against beard stubble. "It's when he's worshipped as a god of murder that there's trouble. Human sacrifice, black magic, necromancy. Lots of dangerous stuff like calling demons." He grimaced sourly. "Worshipping death has got to be one of the stupidest things I've ever heard of. You want death that bad, I'll give you a sharp razor and a tarp so you don't make a mess all over my streets." He sounded annoyed. "It's possible Aravorn was killed by the cult, too, but breaking necks isn't usually messy enough for them."
"Why do you think Taryn had the gems?" asked Amatus. Shard leaned forward and slid a handful of papers across the desk toward them.
5,000 ch. a stone, one read. Padan recognized the sigil at the bottom as the Necromancer's, who'd been an occasional customer of his during the war. 4,000 was offered on the note signed with Exalt Bryony's ornate B. 4,000 ch. a stone, at least two, read the last, on the stationary of the astrologer Harquane. There was also the letter from Amatus, asking for information about Ransom's stolen goods.
"Bids for the demonstones," Padan muttered, feeling a chill go down his spine. Taryn had been playing with fire, letting such powerful mages know he had items of such worth. And it seemed someone had betrayed him to the cult.
"Looks like he figured he'd auction them off," Shard agreed. "Damnfool thing to do."
"So the cult has them now?" Padan asked quietly. Caras' eyes widened.
"I'm not sure," Shard shrugged. "Taryn's shop was destroyed; wasn't a thing there that hadn't been ripped, shattered or broken. We found a money box that had been smashed open. It was empty, but my 'wand' tells me the runes on the lid had been magic once. Taryn's rooms had been rifled. Seems to me that if the cult had what it wanted, it wouldn't have vandalized his place like that. There's a chance Taryn didn't have the gems with him."
"Did they torture him?" Amatus asked, voice tight. Shard gave him a long look.
"Do you consider being nailed to a door and bled to death torture?"
Amatus shuddered.
"Maybe he didn't tell him anything," Caras suggested. "They might still be hidden."
"It's possible," Shard said, voice flat. "But we can't discount the possibility that the cult has them now. I've also got Swords out to question the three bidders, in case the gems had already been sold. I sent a message to the high lord, too, requesting aid from the court mage and his personal guard." The commander rubbed his eyes. "Like it or not, there isn't much the Swords can do against sorcery. I'm hoping we won't have to deal with it at all. The Necromancer's always played fair, Bryony's no mage and Harquane isn't as powerful as the Necromancer or Eirian, if it came to a showdown between them.'
Padan felt a twinge of sympathy for the commander. He could see the problem he might have trying to enforce the law when mages were concerned. Perhaps being the guard on a resort island for the rich and powerful wasn't so simple.
"I thought you had wizards on your staff," Caras said sharply.
"One, our 'wand,' and he's not a wizard so much as a street-corner performer. Wizards don't work for our salary." Shard grimaced. "We have a deal with Exalt Eirian if things ever got really bad, but that's all."
"If the cult has the stones," Amatus said, apparently not noticing that the subject had changed, "can you find them? Do you know who's in the cult?"
"No." Shard shoved the notes from Taryn's shop into a pile and took another mouthful of tea, grimacing at the cold beverage. "The cult's always been on Saldon, even though we periodically discover and execute its members. It's well-organized, I'll say that much for it. We think their rites are held in the old mines, but nobody's ever managed to explore all the tunnels and caverns in there." He referred to the avertiis mines that catacombed the small mountain island; the rare black stone had been mined out over a century ago, leaving only an empty network of tunnels and drops that were secured off by locked iron gates at each entrance. "This is the first hint of cult activity we've had for a couple of years."
"Could it be a frame?" Caras asked.
"Maybe. But why bother?" The commander picked up his mug and walked to the door, opening it. "Jarek, refill this, would you?" He handed it to the clerk and turned back to them. Warm air seeped into the office from the front room's blazing fire. "From what I've learned about the power in these gems, they sound like they'd be exactly what the cult'd be after."
"So now what?" Amatus asked, sounding hopeless.
Shard leaned against the door frame, watching his clerk fill the mug from a pot by the fire.
"I intend to keep at least one of you with me while I'm investigating this case. You've got background information and you can help me keep track of the pieces. I need to find out if one of the bidders got the gems, first; and if they didn't, I'm going to see if Exalt Eirian can help me track down the cult with magic." He shrugged, taking the mug Jarek handed him and closing the door again. "I don't know if it'll work, but it's the best I can do. I'm open to suggestions."
"Thank you for including us," Padan said. He was beginning to suspect that Shard, although he had his failings, wasn't that bad a man. The commander raised an eyebrow, then shrugged.
"Ransom was your friend," he said dismissively.

Crystal had stopped crying by the time the priest ordered an acolyte to escort her home, but she was still shaken. What would Taryn say when he learned she'd been pickpocketed? The thief had two of the gems, and the other two she'd left in the care of Priest Shaugn, who'd seemed to recognize them. He'd told her the gems were magical, and that Taryn would be in grave danger if he'd kept them. She gave a shuddering sigh. Maybe it was better that the thief had stolen them, she thought hopefully. Shaugn had said they were cursed, black magic. But she still didn't know how she was going to explain their loss.
The acolyte grabbed her arm, abruptly jerking her back. Reverie broken, she looked up in shock to see steel flash in the lamplight, a silvery crescent of death. Dark figures surrounded them, features obscured in the rain.
"Run!" the boy shouted, shoving his cloak back and drawing the dagger in his sash. Crystal screamed as the dagger caught the swinging sickle, the clatter of metal against metal hardly audible over the storm's thunder.
Hands grabbed her, roughly pulling her away. She screamed again, struggling. One hand released her, another grabbed her hair and twisted her head around. She clawed for eyes, feeling skin rip under her nails. Tears of pain stung her eyes as her hair was yanked again, a hand closing around her shoulder and pulling. She twisted, slipping on the rain-slick tiles, and buried her teeth in another arm that reached for her. A foot slammed into her back, sending her sprawling. Crystal desperately scrambled away, leaving one of her attackers with a handful of broken tresses. Somebody grabbed her cloak and yanked. Pain seared across her neck for a moment before the gold clasp twisted and broke. She staggered to her feet and ran, no breath left to shriek for the Swords. A piercing cry behind her left her with no doubts concerning the acolyte's fate. Running blindly down the street, Crystal threw out her arms to keep from hitting a wall, sobbing. Feet pounded behind her. Something dark and wet struck her in the back, falling over her head. She yanked the thrown cloak away, but her brief falter in step was enough. Hands closed on her arms and shoulders, pulling her close against soaking bodies behind her. She whimpered with fear, looking up into strangers' faces and struggling to free herself from their viselike grips. Hands searched her pockets.
"Not here," someone grunted. Her teeth closed painfully as she was shaken.
"Where are the gems?" someone else demanded. She gasped, tears streaming down her face. Was that all they wanted?
"The church," she sobbed. "I left them at the church!"
"Bel?" a strange voice asked. She nodded, shaking with terror.
A sickle ended her fears forever.

Padan shivered, freezing in the cold, damp basement. The agony of his joints was nothing compared to the illness he felt as he gazed down at the newest corpses. Amatus hadn't been able to stay more than a moment after seeing Crystal; he'd known her through Taryn.
The priest, Shaugn, nodded and made the sign of the sun over the dead couple.
"Yan and Crystal," he said sadly. "May Bel grant them light on their long journey." He turned to the commander, who watched him wearily. "I believe I know why they died."
"I have an idea or two myself," Shard said in a clipped voice, "but why don't you tell me your theory first?" The Sword had been drinking black tea all day, and it showed in his jittery impatience. He still hadn't had time to shave or change out of his wrinkled uniform.
"The girl brought this and one other to me today, telling me she'd been having nightmares. She thought they might be causing them. I agreed, and on my advice she left the stones with me. I have one; my assistant has the other." Shaugn reached into his cloak pocket and opened his hand. Blue flame burned on his palm.
"Is that a demongem?" Caras asked, leaning forward.
"I believe so, yes, although I haven't had time to consult our texts yet. Crystal said there had been a set of four."
"What happened to them?" Shard asked sharply. The priest shook his head.
"The other two were stolen on her way to me by a young man who bumped her on the street and apparently picked her pocket."
"Gods damn them!" Shard slammed a fist into the morgue wall, face twisted with frustrated rage. The other flinched and he turned to glare at the bodies, as if blaming them for the theft.
"They must be cursed," Caras murmured, shaking her head. Padan closed his eyes, leaning heavily on his cane. So close.... If this had been a tale, he'd be amused, but too many had died for the blue gems for him to find any humor in the situation.
"Who do you think killed them?" Shaugn asked the commander, looking sadly down at the bodies. Shard held out a hand for the gem, and the priest wordlessly handed it over. One of the Swords who'd brought the two in crouched and pulled a tarp over their agonized faces.
"The cult of Caren," Shard said, fists clenched. His face looked pale under its tan, his eyes burning with the fever of sleeplessness and hard work. "It wasn't a ritual murder, not like Taryn's, but the weapon had a serrated edge."
"What does that mean?" Padan asked, not understanding. His own practical experience with weapons was limited to the thin blade in his cane that he carried for self-defense.
"Sickles have serrated edges to help saw through tough grain." Shard restlessly paced. "I've seen people wounded by them before on Terrace Orphiel; fieldworkers' brawls. They aren't good weapons, but the Cult uses them for religious reasons."
"Why would the cult attack Yan and Crystal?"
"For the gems," the commander explained shortly. "The demonstones."
"Which they didn't have." The priest closed his eyes, composure shaken. "They died for nothing."
"Maybe," Caras suggested diplomatically, "we should continue this conversation upstairs?" Shard nodded and led them out of the grim room to his office. Amatus already sat there, looking miserable.
"So now we have some pickpocket on the loose with these things," Shard muttered, rolling the brilliant blue gem carelessly in the palm of his hand. "I wonder if he knew what he was after, or if it was just coincidence. The cult couldn't have sent him," he reasoned, "because if they'd had the gems they wouldn't have bothered killing the girl. Unless they needed all four? Does anyone know?"
"I think one suffices for any one enchantment," Shaugn mused, "but you should ask someone learned in these matters."
"Jarek!"
The clerk opened the door, looking as ragged as his boss. It was getting late, but he'd stayed to fill out the paperwork the rash of murders was causing.
"Yes, sir?"
"Send someone to fetch Exalt Eirian duLon. Tell him we need information on demongems and bring him here."
"Yes, sir." Jarek closed the door again.
"I already talked to him once," Shard told the others, dropping the gem on his desk and reaching for his empty mug. He looked into it and set it down again without comment. "Said if he could've tracked the cult down he'd have done it already. Magic!" The commander sneered, in a bad temper.
"You could offer a reward for the gems, get everyone involved," Caras suggested. Padan nodded. He was surprised it hadn't been done yet.
"That's up to Bryony, not us." Shard stood and grabbed his mug. "I'll get someone to suggest it to him." He left the room.
"What will the cult do with the stones?" Padan asked the priest curiously. Shaugn looked solemn.
"I'm not that familiar with the goals of the death cult," he admitted. "I'm sure its goals are different from those of the formal priesthood of Caren, however. The mainstream worshippers believes their god is born each spring, dies each fall and is reborn again the next spring. I believe the death cult believes their god is in a deathlike sleep he cannot escape from, and it is their duty to find the means to awaken him."
"Can the gems do that?"
"I don't know," Shaugn sighed. "I'm sure Archmage duLon will be able to tell you more. I would like to hear what he has to say, but I have duties at the church."
Shard returned, mug freshly filled.
"You three still want to stick around?" he asked. Padan nodded firmly, Caras and Amatus following suit.
"Fine. Go eat. The archmage won't be here for a habell or so, and it's going to be another long night."
"Do you want anything, commander?" Amatus asked, standing.
Shard nodded wearily.
"Please. Get Jarek to give you some money for me." The commander sat heavily. As the four filed out his door, Padan saw the Sword's head drop to rest in his hands.

High Lord Lucan brushed the hair from his youngest daughter's face as she bobbed a curtsey to the front of the private shrine. She smiled shyly and left to join the rest of his family.
"My lord." A priest bowed.
"Yes?"
"A moment of your time, if you please; something very important has occurred."
Lucan hesitated, tempted to brush the matter off until the next morning. His day had been filled with a series of meetings with Mercantile representatives and his evening with a state dinner; he wanted nothing more than to relax with his family before going to sleep. But the priests didn't often request his time, and he felt obliged to hear them when they did.
"Certainly," he said, turning and gesturing to Jashira and the children to leave without him. "What can I do for you?"
The priest, a middle-aged man named Marin Yethane, led him into a side room where a table and chairs stood, books piles on every flat surface. He lifted a stack from a chair and offered the seat to Lucan.
"My lord, we have evidence that the Cult of Caren is active again, and more dangerous than ever."
"What evidence is this?" Lucan sat down, spirits sinking. He hated religious disputes, the delicate balancing act between Dake's Truth and social reality. Any matter involving the infamous death-worshipping Reapers was bound to be both ugly and drawn out.
"A girl came to us this afternoon and brought with her two gems." The priest opened a small silk pouch and handed its contents to Lucan. The high lord eyed the bright blue gem curiously, admiring the flame that seemed to burn in its center.
"A demongem, my lord. They are very rare and distinctive for their sharp color and illusion of light in the center. There's no actual radiance there; it's a reflection," Yethane added pedantically. "Demongems act as focusing matrices for certain spells, particularly conjurations. They allow the mage to transcend the boundaries of perception to affect other, less accessible realities."
"You're in danger of losing me," Lucan warned the priest with a small smile. Yethane chuckled.
"In essence, my lord, these gems allow a properly trained wizard to call to him beings out of nightmare."
"And the girl had two?"
"She originally had four that she was apparently keeping for a friend; it's not important. What is, is that on her way to us, two were stolen by a pickpocket. The Swords are investigating the case. The remaining two she entrusted to us; this is one. On her way home, escorted by one of our acolytes, she was attacked and both killed. Commander Shard lays blame for the deaths with the Cult of Caren; apparently another cult-related murder occurred slightly before these two. We suspect the cult is also looking for these gems."
"To conjure something unpleasant," Lucan guessed grimly. Yethane nodded. "Where did these gems come from?"
"I'm not sure, my lord; you may wish to peruse Commander Shard's report for the details. However, as the cult could endanger the entirety of Saldon, we thought you should be warned. It's urgent we find them all, quickly."
"Thank you." Lucan stood, picking up the pouch and dropping the glittering stone into it. "I'll keep this, I think, and I'd like you to send me the commander's report as soon as possible."
"Yes, my lord. Thank you for taking the time to listen." Yethane dipped his head as Lucan tucked the pouch into a vest pocket and walked out. When the priest lifted his head, the glitter in his eyes challenged the gem for radiance.

Padan gently shook the commander awake while Amatus laid out the small meal they'd brought for him. Shard woke with a start, hand instinctively reaching for his sword.
"Easy, son," Padan laughed quietly, limping to his chair. "I don't care to be skewered like your meal."
"Sorry," Shard grunted, rubbing his eyes and reaching hungrily for the wood-impaled bits of meat and vegetable. Jarek brought in yet another mug of tea.
"You'd better get some real sleep soon," Caras scolded, sitting next to Padan. "A lot of good you'll do any of us if you're so shaky you trip over your own scabbard."
"I'm all right," Shard scowled. "If this goes on much longer ... well, there are drugs that'll keep me awake."
"Couldn't you get somebody else to carry on your investigation for a few hours?" inquired a new voice. The group looked up to see the High Lord's Mage Eirian duLon hand his dripping cloak to Jarek.
"No chance," Shard said humorlessly. "Jarek, go home after you hang that up. Leave the tea by the fire."
"Yes, commander." The clerk nodded and closed the door. The room was getting crowded, but had warmed considerably.
"Exalt duLon." Shard nodded.
"Commander. Friends." Eirian turned and acknowledged the others with a short bow. He was a strongly built man, with warm brown eyes and a touch of grey at the edges of his wheat-colored hair. He didn't look like a mage, Padan thought, mentally weighing the man. But he did look like a man who could be a good friend or a terrible enemy. "I understand you have a problem with demongems."
Shard wordlessly opened his hand to show the mage the brilliant blue stone, then dropped it into his desk drawer. "What do you know?"
"A bit I've picked up here and there. By the way, the high lord requests a full report as soon as possible." The powerfully built mage leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest as he spoke. "I know Taryn offered to sell a handful of us some demongems, and that you asked me about the cult of Caren, and that there have suddenly been a rash of murders."
"Taryn included," Shard said brusquely. Amatus winced. "Your bid wasn't in the papers we picked up."
"No." Eirian looked slightly chagrined, Padan thought. "I was distracted, and I had an urgent dinner date with High Lord Lucan. Now, how can I help you?"
Shard quickly filled him in on what was known and speculated about the case that had started with a simple tradesman's murder. At the tale's end, Eirian thoughtfully rubbed his clean-shaven chin.
"And what have Bryony, Harquane and the Necromancer had to say?"
"They reported in while everyone was out." Shard looked around, then found the paper he was looking for, covered with Jarek's handwriting. "All admitted that they entered bids and gave us the right amounts. None claims to have the stones now. Bryony claims the stones are his and want them back. We gave him the lecture about reports and paperwork and left some forms for him to fill out. By the way, he claims he ordered the gems as inspiration for a new book of poetry he's working on. The Necromancer wanted them for his conjurations, but he agreed to turn them over to us if he finds them. Harquane wanted them for alchemical uses."
"And I would have been interested in them for their properties of conjuration, myself," Eirian admitted. "As most mages would be."
"Mages and cultists," Amatus sighed, youthful face shadowed with the day's trials. "What can you tell us about the gems' powers? What do we need to fear?"
"Everything," Eirian said, not smiling. He took a moment to focus his thoughts, then began to lecture.
"Demongems are very rare and have only been found in one vein within the Shadowpoint Mountains. How they came to be is something of a mystery, which would be a bit involved to speculate upon right now. They reflect light back in a concentrated, fiery blaze from their center, giving the impression that they actually emit light. This effect is caused by the unique crystalline matrix of the gems. It's this pattern, of course, that makes the gems so valuable to mages. The channels happen to be arranged in a fashion that makes the casting of certain spells easier, less draining on the caster. I'm not going to go into the details; there are books in the university you can read if you're that interested." Eirian looked somber. "The focusing of magical energy through these crystalline matrices weakens them, and the stones shatter after they've been used. This is why there are so few left, and why they're used sparingly. The shattering, by the way, is violent, and an experienced mage will be careful to keep the stone behind some sort of barrier before working the spell, to protect himself."
"Tell us about the spells," Shard ordered. Eirian inclined his head.
"The spells demongems facilitate are those concerned with sleeping and awakening; that is, rising from sleep. A demongem was used to raise "Magicbane" Minor's body from the tomb in Candor, proving that his soul had been stolen and replaced with a demon's."
"Wait—it can raise the dead?"
"In Minor's case, he wasn't truly dead; his soul had been trapped elsewhere and he was technically in a sleeplike state. Other uses of demongems have included awakening the Onieromancer from the endless sleep Pyr Rheid had placed on him, the nightmare assassination of Eminate Nachteract and the summoning of the illumivoraces that roam the Icewind Mountains."
"That last—what do they have to do with sleep?"
"The artist who summoned them had dreamt them to life," Eirian said calmly. "Giving a nightmare substance falls within the demongems' powers, if the proper spells are known, or if the dreamer's imagination is vivid enough."
"Gods!" Shard looked disturbed by the thought. "And these things almost fell into Bryony's hands?"
Padan shook his head, following Shard's thought. The exalt had made his reputation on dark, horror-filled poetry that had, it was rumored, driven at least one reader insane. If his nightmares were given life, Saldon would be a grim place to live, indeed.
"So you see," Eirian concluded, "they have the potential to be quite dangerous in the wrong hands."
"What are we going to do?" Amatus asked anxiously. "We don't have any leads, and if the Cult of Caren is going to raise some ... some deathmare of their own ...." He stopped, looking shaken. Caras reached over and patted his arm, trying to reassure the young man.
"All right." The commander rubbed his eyes. "It's obvious that whatever prompted Lucair to take the stones, it's gone far past that now. Now the whole island's being threatened. That means," he said, looking up at the archmage with bloodshot eyes, "High Lord Lucan has to be warned."
"Priest Shaugn already had one of his clerics warn the high lord," Eirian said. "High Lord Lucan would like me to bring him a copy of your records on this case tonight, and hopes you will drop by during the masque tomorrow to answer his questions. You already have an invitation, I believe."
"All right, fine. And you'd better do what you can to make sure we're not all eaten by something out of a cultist's wet dreams tonight," the Sword retorted wearily. Eirian nodded, unfazed by the commander's sharp tone.
"What about us?" Caras stood and faced the mage. "We've done most of the investigating. I think we'd like to talk to the high lord, too."
Eirian looked down at her, a smile playing on his lips.
"I expect I can arrange a few more invitations," he admitted. "Nobody will notice a few extra guests at the Masque, anyway."
"Okay, fine. We'll meet back here at fifth bell to pick them up." Shard stood. "I'll contact you if anything happens in the meantime."
"Why don't you have your night officer contact us?" Padan suggested gently. "You'll be more alert for Lucan if you get some sleep."
Shard turned to regard him with strained, shadowed eyes, then nodded curtly.
"You're right," he agreed. "We could all use some sleep."

Cathed slipped the pouch of asimae into his pocket and left, more relieved at having gotten rid of the too-valuable gems than he was angry at the poor price they'd fetched. The jeweler watched him go, then swiftly pocketed the stones and the letter from Exalt Bryony; the same letter every jeweler, merchant, goldsmith and silversmith had been given a day ago—the letter suggesting they keep an eye out for the demongems, and promising a reward for their return.
Thanking Aestra for the gift of insomnia that had kept him up late that night balancing his records, Toir locked up the shop and set off in the pouring rain for the upper terraces, where a pouch of chrisae three times what he'd paid that young thief awaited him.
Bryony's villa was set back on Terrace Chela'an, on the Ivory Cliffs that overlooked the sheer side of the island. Swords eyed him closely, a lone traveller on such a miserable night, but seemed satisfied that he carried no weapon or suspicious packages. Nevertheless, he was happy to reach the iron gate of Bryony's property without having to explain his purpose to the money-hungry guards.
A shadow disengaged itself from the darkness around the gate and stepped forward, revealing itself as a red-haired man with sharp features and piercing eyes. Toir stopped, hand burrowing in his cloak pocket to protectively cover the valuable gems.
"Gate guard," the stranger introduced himself. "What business do you have with the exalt?"
Toir nervously licked his lips. This "gate guard" had no mail or weapons, nor was there a box at the gate to keep the rain off a watchman.
"I'm not here to see the exalt," he hastily extemporized. "I was going to see ... ah, Vharek. She isn't here?"
"Vharek?" The "guard" smiled tightly. "There's nobody named Vharek here. What's your true business?"
Toir lost his nerve and turned to run. The "guard" lunged forward, hand closing on a fistful of oiled canvas. The jeweler fumbled at the clasps on his raincloak and ripped loose of the garment.
"Come back here!" The "guard" tossed the cloak behind him and gave chase. Toir turned and ran.
"Sword! Sword! To me!" he screamed, stumbling, picking himself back up again in time to dodge the "guard"'s reaching hand and taking off. Behind him, the red-haired man swore. "Sword!"
"Here!" The shouted reply was sweet to Toir's ears as a Sword somewhere on the upper-class terrace took heed. He put on a burst of speed.
Behind him the false watchman stopped, reluctant to pursue the man into the arms of a real guard. As the jeweler's cries began to fade down the street, he turned and ran back to the gate, snatching up the fallen cloak as he passed. Claiming there was no Vharek at the house had been a gamble that had paid off. And since the man hadn't come for some forbidden tryst, that meant that he'd had other business at the mansion. The red-haired man slid into the shadows around the corner of the fenced villa and rummaged through the pockets of the garment, searching for some clue to the man's identity. The cult knew Bryony was hunting the stones; and the watch on the mansion had been set exactly for that reason. It was possible the poet might have more success than they; and they wanted the stones first.
His fingers closed on two small spheres, and the red-haired man let a thin smile appear on his lips as he pulled them out.
Dim light from the villa's windows caught and danced in the gems' hearts.

The Great Masque had fallen into disfavor for almost twenty years after the assassination of High Lord Salane by a wolf-masked killer. Its revival by High Lord Lucan had been greeted with favor by most on the isle, and it was generally believed that he was popular enough to need not fear assassins. Besides, most people agreed, the new guildmaster had no grudge against the high lord; his midnight game of Crow with the monarch that had won him the Manse on terCaraciel was a well-known story. Surely, they told each other, if the master of the guild of assassins had wanted the high lord dead, he would have done it then. And it was nice to have a reason to dress up and go out during the rainy season.
Nevertheless, the guards admitted nobody without an invitation, and Caras inspected hers closely as she trudged through the glass-tiled streets toward the Opal Gates with the rest of the small group.
"Nice work," she grudgingly admitted. "It'd take a forger along the lines of the Midnight Scribe to copy this engraving. Remember him, Padan?"
"Of course." Padan gave her a brief smile as he concentrated on the road. Colored sand had been strewn over the tiles to help the multitude of visitors keep their footing, but even so it was all too easy to slip where the rain had washed the sand away.
"I always wondered what happened to him after the war. Brilliant boy."
"How is it you superficially honest merchants seem to know so many criminals?" Shard asked, the sarcasm was almost lost in his air of preoccupation. Sleep had erased the lines in his face and the shadows under his eyes, and with a shave and a fresh uniform he looked much more respectable than he had earlier.
"War brings all sorts together," Padan explained, thinking back on his own dubious dealings during Salane's folly, the Chaldonean War.
"Did you fight during the war?" Amatus asked, looking curiously at the old man. The merchant seemed to have rallied well from the shocks of the previous day, although Padan knew from experience that it would take him much longer to come to terms with his friends' deaths. For the moment, however, his somberly cut clothes and mourning had been set aside for festive Masque costume, and the youth seemed eager to see the inside of the palace.
"Not exactly," Caras chuckled, tucking her invitation back under the raincloak before the damp streaked its ink. Padan threw her a sour look.
"But you were both in the war, weren't you?" Amatus pressed.
"Mmhmm. But he was a fisherman and I was a shopkeep's daughter, and neither of us joined the fighting, so don't even bother asking what it was like," Caras said with finality. "The whole thing was stupid and against the dominarch's law; Salane called us victorious, but the truth is that the Dominarchy would have placed an embargo on all ships to the isle if he hadn't ended it. Politicians!"
"I'd advise you to keep your opinions about politicians to yourself today," Shard muttered, dark eyes watchfully examining the crowd around the Opal Gate from under his hood.

Harquane ushered his masked companion into the room, one of a row of such that lined the halls around the great ballroom and were unlocked for guests' use during the masque. After he'd closed and locked the door behind them, both doffed their masks and laid them on the oak table in the center of the room.
"What's your plan, Kai?" Harquane asked eagerly. The red-haired man pulled the two demonstones from his vest pocket.
"We summon tonight," he said. Harquane's look of fierce exultation made him smile slightly. "And you will be one of the circle."
"Thank you." The astrologer bowed his head deferentially. "But surely you had a reason to call me here other than to tell me that?"
"Two for summoning and two for slaying."
"But we have only...."
"The church of Bel had the other two. Our man there gave one to the high lord to keep, and he tells us the Swords' commander keeps the other."
Harquane nodded slowly, eyes fixed on his leader. Such placement was ... convenient.
"You have the spells and you know how to use them. Do it tonight, to welcome our Lord back."
"And then?"
"Join us in the caverns as a priest, initiated in blood, and witness the long-awaited Return."
"I shall." Harquane impulsively grabbed Kai's hands and pressed their backs to his forehead in a bow. He looked up, eyes wide. "I shall."

Amatus led their small group through the throng of vendors and entertainers that surrounded the gates, hoping for a tossed coin or, perhaps, an invitation inside. After nearly a quabell's wait in line, the guards at the gates summarily examined their invitations and waved them inside, where servants took their raincloaks and attempted to wrest Shard's weapon from him before he presented his Sword's identification.
A lamplit hallway led into the great ballroom that already held a crowd of masked and costumed guests. Amatus had cheerfully presented costumes for Caras and Padan over their protests that afternoon at the Swords' headquarters, claiming that they should look their best for the high lord. Shard wore a dress uniform, his only concession to the requirements of the Masque a stark black domino. The demonstone he'd taken from his locked desk and tucked safely into his jacket before they'd left for the palace.
"What now?" Amatus asked, looking around. Shard shrugged, eyes still scanning the group.
"Exalt Eirian will find us when the high lord's ready to see us. Until then, I assume you're free to enjoy the party."
"I don't suppose you ever learned how to dance," Caras asked, looking skeptically at Padan.
"Not in this weather," he grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in the multi-hued costume Amatus had foisted off on him. He felt ridiculous, and far too conspicuous. Caras, on the other hand, seemed excited by the prospect of the party. Somewhat disappointed that his aching joints wouldn't stand up to offering her a turn on the ballroom floor, instead he held out an arm with as much gallantry as he could summon. Caras smiled sweetly and took it.
"I always knew there was a gentlemen under your extremely uncivilized exterior," she said. Padan smiled wickedly.
"Shard! I thought you said you weren't coming tonight!" Padan and Caras paused to see a young man confront the commander, clad as an idealized Somadian nomad. Shard smiled, the hard lines of his face softening as he bowed.
"Business, Malachim," he explained affectionately, "but it looks like it may keep me here awhile."
"Good." The "nomad" smiled, taking the commander's gloved hand and pulling him away with a flirtatious glance. "You can tell me what's kept you so busy these past few days...."
"Well," Amatus said with a lifted eyebrow, "it seems I've fallen behind in the pairings. If you'll excuse me," he addressed Padan and Caras, "I'll see you later, before I feel completely left out."
"Youth," Padan muttered. Caras laughed.
"Come on, old man. Let's find the banquet table. It looks like it might be a fun party, after all."

Rain pounded against the tall windows, almost loud enough to drown out the nearby conversations if one stood close enough to them. Raven leaned with his back to the cold glass, reminded of a similar masque many years ago, and a false accusation that had sent him into long exile to save his life. He reached up to touch the metal wolfsmask that covered his face. It was a replica of the mask he'd worn then, a touch he knew only one man would appreciate.
"So you did show up," Eirian smiled, dodging a fancifully accoutered noblewoman to stand next to him. He glanced at his friend's mask and nodded. "Let's hope nobody here's an old-timer."
"Nobody has reason to remember House Arvais' infamous scion."
"You know it's still not too late to clear your name," the archmage said softly. The jeweled wolfeyes turned toward him, and Raven shrugged.
"Have you put an end to my story yet?" he asked, changing the subject. Eirian sighed.
"Not quiet," he said, gazing at the rainbow array of finery that jostled and maneuvered around them. "The street-rat was the assassin who killed the tradesman, but the gems were sold to a fence. The fence gave them to a girl. A cult killed the fence. Two stones were lost to a pickpocket, and two stones were given to a church. A cult killed the girl. And that's as far as I've gotten."
"A cult?" Raven folded his arms under the heavy black velvet cloak he wore to stay warm in the chill weather. "That could be unfortunate."
"It could open the gates of hell, Raven," Eirian said with sudden seriousness.
"So stop them. You're an archmage."
"They're too well shielded. I've never been able to find their meeting-places. Commander Shard's theory is that they meet in the old avertiis mines, but if they do, there's enough of the damn rock around to keep me from sensing them."
Raven nodded. He was familiar enough with magic to know that just as some stones aided magical use, others hindered it. The first palace of Saldon had been made completely of avertiis, but it had been abandoned as too cold and remote centuries ago, and left desolate until he'd won it from the high lord in a midnight game of chance. For many reasons, it suited him.
"Scry the stones," he suggested.
"I tried last night. The high lord has one, and the other was in Commander Shard's desk. No fix at all on the other two."
"That was last night. Try again."
Eirian nodded, head aching under his half-mask of a lion's mane and snarling muzzle. "I should. Maybe I'll try before my meeting with Lucan. Oh, that reminds me," he said suddenly, "I should really introduce you around. Everyone'd be delightfully scandalized to learn the guildmaster of assassins was here. You'd be the subject of conversation for days."
"I'd rather not," Raven said stiffly.
"Well ... I thought you might not. Although I do suggest you pay your respects to the high lord, at least; he did invite you. But do as you will, my friend." Eirian hid a smile. "I've got to get back to Trina and her friends or I'll be accused of deliberately avoiding them. Won't you even come to greet her? I can keep your title secret."
Raven began to shake his head when the screaming started.

Padan spilled the crystal goblet of wine over the banquet table when the first scream tore through the air. Caras covered her mouth with a startled hand, eyes wide, then craned her neck to discover where the noise was coming from.
"That way!" Padan said, pointing. The crowd was in chaos, some fighting to back away from the center of the terror, others pushing in to see what had caused it. Padan stumbled as the press knocked his cane aside, and nearly fell before Caras caught him. Together they backed up, looking for an easier way to see what was happening. On the other side of the crowd, Amatus fared somewhat better as he pushed forward.
"Get back! Back, dammit! Get back!" Shard's voice rang over the crowd noise. The young merchant broke through to see the commander standing with sword drawn in his left hand, blood streaming down his face. A large bloodstain covered the front of his uniform coat, where his right hand was hidden beneath the fabric. His dark eyes were wild, and Amatus feared for anyone who pressed to near to his bare blade. "Get back!"
Behind him, a woman wearing the healer's guild cord around her waist leaned over Malachim, hands tilting his face up. The costumed youth was on his knees, face shredded, blood streaming over his shirt. His hands gripped her wrists tightly, but he'd stopped screaming at her touch.
"Carrick save us," the merchant whispered, feeling ill. Next to him a woman who'd fought with him to the front turned away, covering her face with her hands a moment before she could control herself.
"All right!" Eirian shoved through the crowd to appear next to Shard, gripping his shoulder with one hand. "BACK!"
The crowd milled and gave them room, leaving Amatus standing in the open space. Eirian ignored him, focusing his attention on the commander.
"What happened?" he demanded. Shard turned, rage flashing in his eyes. The archmage tightened his grip, pulling him closer.
"What happened?" he demanded again. The commander's anger seemed to vanish, replaced with dull pain.
"The demonstone exploded," he said flatly. Eirian released him, brown eyes widening.
"Lucan!" Amatus breathed, turning to hunt for the high lord of Saldon. At the same time Eirian threw his head back, eyes closed as he mentally reached out for the mind of his liege lord in the crowd.

Harquane caught the high lord as he slumped, struck down by the sleeping enchantment cast from the commander's gemstone. As the crowd milled in the center of the ballroom, ignoring all but the commotion there, he lowered the high lord to the ground and furtively glanced around for the guards. By the doors and windows, they stood distracted by the chaos around the commander and the archmage, the crowd between them and the banquet table. A thrill of victory ran through him as he slid his fingers into Lucan's waistcoat, searching for the last demonstone. All he needed was to find it before the guards saw him; and then he could escape with the high lord's comatose body to Kai and present Caren with a truly worthy sacrifice.
A slender, black-gloved hand closed on his shoulder. Startled, he looked over his shoulder into gemstone eyes.
"I think not," the gaunt figure behind him said softly. The astrologer yanked away, turning to face his foe. Gloved hands lifted the mask away to reveal the infamous guildmaster of assassins' narrow features and violet eyes. Still on his knees by the high lord's body, Harquane slowly pulled his hand back. The demonstone flashed blue fire between his fingers.
"Try to stop me and your worst nightmare will eat you alive," he hissed, mind already seeking out the lattices of force trapped in the gem. Raven let the mask drop to the floor with a metallic clatter.
"It's already tried," the assassin said bitterly, reaching up to unfasten the clasp of his velvet cloak. It slid to the floor behind him, leaving him clad in simple black garments that covered him feet to neck. Harquane watched him carefully, gathering close the strands of spell-weave he'd need to stop the assassin, but Raven did nothing else.
At the other end of the table, unnoticed by the combatants, Padan's eyes were fixed on the two, one hand placed warningly on Caras' arm. Behind him Caras silently bit her lip. Unable to make any progress through the crush, they'd given up, Padan's aching legs forcing him to sit down while she tried to glean the events in the center of the room from the gossip of the onlookers in front of them. Padan had been the first to notice the tableau being enacted, his touch drawing her attention to it, as well.
Raven waited, calm violet eyes gazing thoughtfully at the astrologer who kneeled a few feet away. He could sense the sorcery Harquane was gathering near, a charge in the air like lightning. He knew the attempt was useless; the moment the astrologer focused inward to cast the spell, he would strike.
Harquane read the assassin's intention, and waited for Raven's concentration to falter, disturbed, perhaps, by the furor of the crowd.
Neither moved.
Padan looked from one to the other, calculating. He recognized Raven from descriptions of the blade-for-hire given by others; and he'd seen Harquane often in the Magnus daymarket. But which one did he trust? The astrologer crouched over the fallen high lord with the demonstone in hand seemed the more immediate threat, but who could predict what was on an assassin's mind?
Caras let her hand drop to his shoulder, squeezing. Making a decision, he slowly reached for the tablecloth with one gnarled hand, leaning forward in his chair. A distraction would at least break the impasse.
He yanked.
Glass shattered and dishes clattered, liquor and hors d'oeuvres spilling across the polished floor. In the brief moment that Harquane started, Raven lashed out, body turning as his foot caught the astrologer's arm. The demonstone flew from the astrologer's hand, glittering in the chandeliers' light in midair a moment before falling to the floor and skittering away. Harquane threw himself back, scrambling to his feet. Raven completed his turn, foot lower, and swept the astrologer's legs out from under him. Harquane fell heavily backward, landing next to Lucan's prone body.
Caras rushed up as Raven crouched over the astrologer, skidding to a stop a safe distance away from the trained killer. Padan followed somewhat more slowly, gingerly avoiding the puddles of wine and food.
"Don't kill him!" Caras urgently cried out. "Exalt Eirian will want to question him!"
Raven turned to examine her, eyes narrowed evaluatingly as he twined his fingers through Harquane's hair and yanked, forcing the astrologer to scramble on hands and knees or lose his scalp. At the assassin's agonizing guidance, the astrologer dropped to his stomach on the floor, tears of pain and frustration dripping to the polished boards beneath his face.
"Get him," Raven ordered. She swallowed and turned, leaving Padan to warily watch the assassin as she sought the archmage.

A world inverted; no stars shone in the cloud-hidden sky, but the lights of Saldon's terraces glittered off the black ocean. Kai leaned against the rail along Terrace Icanicas, looking down past the lower terraces that unfolded beneath him to the ocean. The palace was on the other side of the terrace; the gates to the mines behind him hung with chains and locks to ward off curious children and tourists.
With a proprietary nod to the view, the red-haired man turned and pulled an old key from his cloak, swiftly unlocking the padlocks and letting himself inside. As he locked them behind him, a dark shape rustled beside him.
"What orders, your worship?"
"The astrologer Harquane may join us tonight; let him in and guide him to the chambers." He slipped the key back into his pocket and turned. "Be wary and ready to give alarm should anyone else attempt to enter."
"When ... when will He be here?"
Kai smiled at the awed tone in the guard's voice.
"Tonight," he promised. "Tonight, you'll worship at Caren's feet."
"It will be the beginning of a new rule," the guard predicted. Kai nodded.
"Yes, it will," he agreed, taking the lantern the guard offered and passing him, hand resting lightly on the dark tunnel wall. It was only when he was too deep for light to be noticed through the mine gates that he lifted the lantern's hood to light his winding descent.

Eirian entered the library where they waited, weariness evident in his drawn face and tired nod.
"All right," he said, "we know what's going on. And it's bad."
Over a bell had passed since the fiasco in the ballroom, and in those hours the mage had labored nonstop, using the last demongem to awaken the high lord again and then magically quizzing the captive astrologer about the cult's dark plot. Padan, Caras and Amatus had been summarily dismissed to wait for him, and Shard had joined them as soon as the healer had cleaned and bandaged the wounds from the shattered demongem. He'd been holding the stone out to show Malachim when it had exploded. The healer had assured them that Malachim's sight should recover, but Shard remained grimly silent, his own face criss-crossed with nicks and his right hand thickly bandaged. He'd been carrying the stone in his breast pocket before pulling it out. He'd escaped death by seconds, but the price had been high.
Raven had left after speaking briefly with the archmage, avoiding the crowds in the anonymity of a borrowed cloak and hood.
Now the four in the library looked up, pale but expectant.
"The cult's planning to summon Caren in ..." the archmage looked at the bejeweled clock near the door, "about a bell."
Padan bowed his head and rubbed his eyes. He felt exhausted, as if things were moving too quickly and he were being left behind. From Ransom's death in a lonely warehouse on the docks to a plot to summon a death-god's avatar; it seemed like a bard's fantasy, and certainly not something the likes of him got involved in. For a weary moment he considered letting the heroes deal with the problem; the archmages, the merchant nobles and the commanders of the guard.
But when he looked up, the weariness and pain in their eyes were the same as his own.
"So how do we find them?" he asked, sighing.
"Harquane won't give me the information, and I'd need more time to wheedle it out of him without destroying his mind completely. Which, before you ask, I can't do under law." He glanced at Shard, who nodded shortly. "Neither can I escry them anywhere on the Isle. That gives us several options." The archmage collapsed in a leather chair and began to tick them off. "One, they aren't on Saldon. That's unlikely, since it's still the storm season. The Swords have ensured no large ship has left the docks since Ransom's murder—not that any captain's brave or stupid enough to try making the voyage in this weather.
"Two, they could be in a vortex. I wouldn't be able to detect them if they're holed up in a planar fold, but I doubt they'd take such a desperate step. As far as I know, there's no way to control the vortices, and entering one willingly would be a foolhardy thing to do. I don't think the cultists are fools.
"Three, they could be in a warded area resistant to scrying. I can't escry the Manse, the House of Glass or the Necromancer's tower, but on the other hand, neither Raven, the keeps nor the Necromancer have any use for the cultists and certainly wouldn't provide them sanctuary."
"The mines," Shard said. Eirian nodded.
"They're probably in the mines. The remaining avertiis deposits there would interfere with my efforts, and if they've used a bit of sorcerous warding to strengthen the natural resistance, even I wouldn't be able to pierce it."
"The mines are huge," Amatus groaned. "We'll never find them in time."
Eirian nodded, pensive. There was moment of silence.
"You couldn't escry them once you were inside?" Shard asked the mage.
"That depends on where the avertiis deposits are, compared to where they are. If the deposits form an outer shell around them, once I was inside the shell I'd find them. But who knows how the few remaining deposits might run? There haven't been miners on the isle for centuries."
"So our best bet is to try from within the mine shafts." Shard scowled and scratched his bandaged arm irritably. "But the gates'll probably be watched ... or spell-warded."
Padan glanced at Caras. Her eyes flickered up to gaze thoughtfully, inquiringly at him. He sighed. The old woman knew him too well. A pity, he thought, that he had so few secrets from her. It made her very hard to fool.
"The gates can be avoided," he sighed. "There's a cave on Orphiel's coast that leads into natural caverns below the mines."
"Of course," Shard muttered, looking up suddenly with a sharp look. "And you undoubtedly stumbled onto it by accident."
Padan shrugged, avoiding the commander's eyes.
"It's accessible only by water," he told Eirian. "During low tide you can take a rowboat in if everyone ducks, or you can swim through during high tide. It opens almost immediately into a grotto."
"And this opens into the shafts?" the archmage pressed, leaning forward. The weariness had been pushed aside as he concentrated on this new information, brown eyes fixed on the old man.
"There used to be a wooden stair that led up to the shafts. I think the passage was made long after the mines had been abandoned; it's narrow and rough."
"I'm not even going to ask what it was used for," Shard muttered, shaking his head. "But it's going to be gated off as soon as I can give the orders."
"And you know the passage from this grotto to the outer gates?"
Padan sighed, closing his eyes a moment. He'd walked the smuggler's trail a few times during his younger days, but it had been years ago. Still....
"I think so," he said hesitantly. "If none of the tunnels have collapsed, and if the old marks are still there."
"We'll blaze our own trail so we can backtrack if we have to," mused Eirian, already planning the effort. "I'll put a sorceror's mark on it to keep the casual eye from noticing."
"And if you die, we're all lost," Shard sourly pointed out. "We'll use physical marks, thanks."
"All right." Eirian's concentration was unshaken by the comment. "Low tide is a quabell past dawn; too late for us. Swimming's probably not an option." Padan raised his eyebrows as the mage continued. "I can conjure us in, but...." for the first time his gaze seemed to focus on the group in front of him. He frowned. "It's not a very pleasant experience," he finished.
"What does that mean?" Amatus asked with a nervous laugh. "Are you going to turn us into fish?"
Eirian smiled.
"No, not for such a short trip. But breathing water's hard on the lungs, the ocean temperature's going to be bitter cold, and expelling the water when you're on dry land again isn't fun, either." He glanced at the young merchant. "However, it's less painful than being metamorphed," he added.
"Can Padan and Caras survive it?" Shard asked with characteristic bluntness. Padan glanced at him, then at Caras.
"We're not that fragile," she said sharply. "Besides, if you think you're leaving me behind just when everything's beginning to make sense...!"
"We don't need you; we only need Padan."
"I'm going anyway," she warned him. They glared at each other, two souls accustomed to getting their own way.
"You can go if you accept the risks," Eirian calmly interceded. "And you, Padan?"
"Of course," he said wearily. They did need him, and he was as determined as Caras to see the thing through to the end. More, perhaps; Ransom had been his friend. He'd do his best, although his arthritis twinged at the thought of entering the cold sea water, and he doubted he'd survive a bout of the coughing sickness at his age.
Which is why, he thought with a little regret, the bards never sing about old heroes.
They die too easily.

Lucan stiffened, pen halting on parchment. The flame of the oil lamp on the desk danced in the sudden gust of wind. The balcony doors had been closed when he'd retired to write in his journal, letting the evening's stressful events slide from his mind. But the click behind him had disturbed his concentration....
"Your ink is bleeding," a soft, familiar voice said. Lucan let his breath out with a sigh and turned, carelessly setting the pen aside. He'd only heard the voice once before, but tonight he felt certain he had nothing to fear from it.
Raven turned from the glass-paneled door he was closing, gloved fingers rising from the latch to pull a black ribbon from his tied-back hair. He no longer wore his Masque costume.
"Eirian told me what you did," the high lord said simply. "Thank you."
A nod was the only reply he was given, the assassin tucking the ribbon into his belt and pulling an armchair from the corner next to the balcony doors. Water dripped from his soaking black clothes, irreparably staining the chair's silk upholstery.
"If it's not too much effort," Lucan asked with a touch of wry humor in his voice, "would you mind telling me what you're doing? And why you refuse to use the door like a normal person?" After Raven had entered in much the same manner years ago, Lucan had thought to be more cautious of his windows and doors; but like it did so many resolutions, time had worn his away.
"Eirian asked me to guard you tonight," the guildmaster said shortly, sitting next to the doors. Violet eyes turned to stare out at the rain, ending the conversation with an arrogant finality that reminded Lucan of his childhood in the court, when his guardians grew tired of arguing with a young heir. The memory made him smile, and the smile made him realize that he was at ease despite sharing a room with a known murderer-for-hire.
An unusual man, this Raven, he thought, gazing at the dark figure. And one who has done me a great service. How did one reward such a man? Did such a man desire reward?
The dark watcher sat still, apparently absorbed by the designs the rain painted on the glass. Lucan shook his head and turned back to his journal, trusting his archmage's estimate of the assassin.
"Sir?" A guard tapped at the door.
"Enter," Lucan called. Behind him Raven's head rose, gloved fingers smoothly sliding an envenomed dagger from its sheath at his belt.
"Commander -" the guard stopped, eyes widening as he saw the infamous assassin in the room. Without thought, the soldier reached for his sword.
"Stop!" Lucan ordered, voice hard. "He's my guest," he said in a quieter voice as the guard froze. "Did you have a message?"
Raven coldly watched as the soldier reluctantly let go of his blade's hilt, forcing himself to look from the assassin to his high lord. The dagger's discolored blade vanished again.
"Uh, yes, archon." The soldier drew his thoughts back the message he'd brought. "Commander Shard has commanded the palace be placed in a state of emergency. The cult of Caren works to summon an avatar tonight, and you're to be moved to a more secure area. Archmage-exalt Eirian goes out to attempt to stop the summoning."
A shiver crept down Lucan's spine as he realized the implications of the guard's words, both for himself and his beloved island city-state. He was no mage to fight necromancy, nor even a very good swordsman to protect himself. His skill was statecraft and law; and gods were above both.
"My family -"
"They will be taken to safety with you."
Lucan nodded and stood, wiping the pen and carefully setting the journal aside. Perhaps, he thought with a touch of sadness, it would be all that remained of him by morning.
Raven rose too, soft steps carrying him to the high lord's side.
"My lord?" the guard asked, looking nervously from Raven to Lucan, fingers nervously clutching the hilt of his sword. Lucan shook his head in a silent order.
"Raven—you've already done more than I could ask," he said, turning to face his living shadow. Raven's face was impassive, no hint of what he was thinking escaping his cold violet eyes. "I'll be safe with my guards."
"I go with you," he said softly, brooking no argument.
Lucan cocked his head, giving the taller man's face close scrutiny, but the assassin's expression was closed; and though he looked into Raven's eyes, he knew he wasn't really meeting them.
But once he'd played a midnight game against the assassin for the price of a mansion, and today the assassin had saved his life. Whatever complex motives governed Raven's actions, Lucan couldn't bring himself to believe they included treason.
And Raven had said Eirian sent him. He knew his archmage considered the assassin a friend, though when he'd once asked why, Eirian had only murmured about a shared past and let the matter drop. Respecting his advisor's privacy, he hadn't pressed. Now he wished he had.
He looked away from the silent killer.
"Tonight Raven goes where I go," he informed the young soldier, making his decision. The guard's face fell in dismay and worry. "Inform the others so there won't be any unpleasantries." He paused, then glanced back at Raven. A small, knowing smile curled his lips as he stressed, "Tonight."
For a moment he thought he saw an answering glint of humor in the assassin's eyes.

The archmage surfaced in a spray of water, sucking air as he tread water. As soon as he caught his breath he gave a thumbs-up sign and began swimming to shore.
Shard smiled sourly at his companions.
"Looks like we're in for a swim," he said, using his good arm to pick up the oiled-canvas bundle that held his sword. As bare-chested as the rest of the men in the group, his dark skin showed the paler scars of past engagements as a Sword.
Padan took a deep breath, trying to brave himself for the underwater trek. They'd all stripped to the essentials, Caras adding a light shirt over the swimming cloths the rest of them wore. While they'd waited for Eirian they'd wrapped raincloaks around themselves to keep warm in the sheeting rain, but now they began setting the cloaks aside, shivering.
The bare-chested mage joined them, sitting on a rock near the lantern.
"I don't even think they're very far away," he said encouragingly. "It looks like they might not hold their ceremonies in the mines proper, but actually just be using some of the natural sea caverns. The stair's pretty rotten, but it should get us all up if we're careful. " He ran fingers through his slicked-back hair, making it stand up in ridiculous spikes, eyes bright with interest. "I'm definitely going to have to spend some time investigating these caves," he decided.
"So let's see this magic of yours," Shard interrupted.
"Might not have to. How good of a swimmer are you? The grotto can be made in one dive, if you think you're up to it. The coast here drops off almost immediately, and the cave Padan mentioned isn't far around the edge." He pointed to the point where the shore they stood on vanished into the sheer wall of the Ivory Cliffs. "Less than a quarter-mile, but there's no easy way to get to it except by water."
"I'll suffer the spell," the commander demurred drily, gesturing with his bandaged hand. "I'm not in top form tonight."
"I'll go without," Amatus said, relief coloring his tone. "I used to swim all the time when I was a boy."
"You two get the spells whether you like it or not," Eirian said before either Padan or Caras could make their feelings known.
"Fine, let's get this over with," Padan said irritably. Being half-naked in the cold rain was sheer agony on his joints, and between that and his apprehension at the upcoming experience, his patience was short. The mage seemed to understand, ordering the three of them into the water and closing his eyes to martial his thoughts.
The first thing Padan felt as the spell hit was a tightness in his chest. He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs refused to cooperate.
Eirian opened his eyes to see panic in the three subjects of his spell.
"Duck under," he ordered. "Breathe water!" He began splashing out toward them, gesturing to Amatus to join him.
Breathe water? For all he'd been warned, when it came to the point of lowering his head under the water and filling his lungs, Padan knew he wouldn't be able to do it. It went against everything he'd ever learned.
Clamping his hands on shoulder and neck, Eirian gave him no choice. The mage half-lifted him into the air and plunged him into the ocean.
He struggled against the grip until his lungs were fiery agony, and then self-preservation overrode intellect. He opened his mouth and breathed in.
Salt water seared his lungs.
Eirian's grip on him tightened again as he renewed his struggles, lungs burning, adrenalin pumping to drive him up, up out of the water, up out of certain death.
Then the pain faded, and it was the dull pressure of expelling the water that made him struggle, stomach heaving as if to vomit out the water he now relied on for life.
At last Eirian lifted his hands. Padan's eyes burned as he looked around, unaccustomed to swimming in the salt water. He maneuvered his feet beneath him and looked up, head breaking the surface of the water. It was strange to rise from water into the pouring rain, but light from the lantern on shore still spilled over the waves.
Caras stood not too far away, the pain in her face making him start to speak, to beg Eirian to release her from the spell. Water spilled from his mouth and he stopped. She shook her head, eyes wide with apprehension at what they'd become.
"Are you okay?" Eirian asked. Padan started to nod before he realized the archmage was addressing Amatus, who was taking a sip of seawater and spitting.
"The commander seems a little testy," the merchant said ruefully, straightening. With a wince, he gingerly felt his jaw. Shard pulled himself out of the water a few feet away, face drawn in agony in the unsure light. Eirian frowned and splashed deeper into the water toward him.
"Can you breathe?" he asked. The commander nodded, then lifted his bandaged hand and touched his face. where the plaster had washed off the small cuts and nicks he'd suffered that evening.
Eirian swore. "Sorry. I didn't remember...."
Padan ducked his head back into the water, fighting for another breath of liquid. He knew from past experience that the commander's wounds would hurt like hell; but in a minute the pain would dull.
"We'll form a chain," Eirian ordered. "First me, then Padan, Caras and Shard. Amatus, you take the rear to make sure nobody has trouble. As soon as we enter the grotto I'll lead you to shore and take the spell off. It's going to be just as unpleasant as putting the spell on," he warned. Padan grimaced. He'd always thought magic would be a convenience, a way to rise above the day-to-day difficulties of the world, but now he was learning why so many mages used their spells sparingly.
"Okay?" Eirian looked around, then nodded. "Let's go."
Rain pockmarked the surface of the water, highlighted by the lantern they left behind on the rocks, but the light quickly vanished behind them as Eirian led them around the shore's edge to skirt the cliff wall, on the east side of the island. Padan found it easiest to periodically dive to take a breath of water. A dolphin in reverse, he thought with a brief smile, although surely no dolphin found breathing as uncomfortable as he did. The swimming itself wasn't so bad; like most native Saldonians, he'd played in the canals of Haute Lucerne as a child, swimming as naturally as he walked. His arms didn't have the strength they'd once had, arthritis limiting his joints' movement, but all in all, not even the cold was so terribly uncomfortable.
Unless disregard for the chill was part of the spell's effect, he mused....
Sudden light made him start, breaking his reverie. Eirian was treading water in front of him, one hand upraised with a faint limning of light playing around it. Padan stopped, bobbing in the waves, and scrutinized the cliff face. Yes, he could just barely discern the darker spot just over the water's surface, where the top of the cavern mouth made the waves bubble and splash.
He hadn't seen it for years, since he'd been a young man helping smugglers avoid the port taxes Salane the Bloody had levied to help fund the Chaldonean War. Gods!—that had been so long ago. Back when he'd never expected to live as long as he had, avoiding Chaldonean spies and Saldonian press-gangs, sailing at night without lights past strings of guard ships to meet free traders outside the war zone.
"Just a small dive, short tunnel and then up to the surface. Ready?" Eirian shouted over the waves' noise. All four nodded, Amatus adding a cheery wave. The archmage smiled, then dove.
The conjured light didn't vanish underwater, and it was that pale glow that Padan followed as he entered the tunnel and utter darkness. Fish brushed him as the light began to rise.
His head broke surface and he took a deep breath out of habit, then choked and remembered to duck underwater again to fill his lungs. A hand touched his shoulder and Caras bobbed to the surface next to him, shaking her white hair out of her eyes. He nodded to her to show he was all right, and she smiled back, hand gently patting his cheek. He could tell from the way her eyes danced that she'd enjoyed the adventure despite the pain of the spell. She always had liked excitement, even as a shopkeeper's daughter who'd sometimes stayed up late to serve her father and his guests wine as they planned midnight smuggling trips.
Eirian waved his hand and silently swam to shore, his faint light a beacon guiding them, reflecting faintly from the damp walls of the cavern. Amatus pulled himself up while Eirian stopped the other three, leaning close.
"You'll have to expel the water from your lungs; it's going to hurt, but try to be as quiet as you can," he whispered. At their apprehensive nods, he closed his eyes again, lips moving silently.
Even knowing what to expect, Padan felt tears of pain sting his eyes as the convulsive retching racked him, knees collapsing to drop him in the shallows on all fours. He felt someone pounding his back, jarring the last of the salt water from his lungs and supporting him as he dry-heaved.
"You're okay, it's over, it's all right," Amatus murmured steadily, a supporting arm helping him stand. Unable to help himself, Padan leaned against him until the shaking passed, grateful for the young man's help.
Someone began softly swearing.
"I'm all right," Padan whispered, weakly pulling back. Amatus cheerfully slapped him on the back, then left to help Shard, who was shakily unwinding the bandage from his injured hand.
"Magic," the commander snarled, glaring but allowing the young merchant to unwind the bandage and wring it out for him. "I hate it."
Eirian smiled, helping Caras up as she wiped her mouth and shuddered.
"Quiet, now," he warned, letting the glow around his hand fade until it was hardly more than a sea-creature's pale phosphorescence. They waited as Amatus re-fastened the bandage around Shard's hand and the commander unwrapped his longsword from its canvas coverings, struggling to fasten it to the belt around his waist again.
Padan took the time to look around. The waves crashed rhythmically against the narrow shores of the cavern. The air was damp and chill, sending sharp twinges of pain through his joints. In the diminished light he couldn't see much but his companions. Looking at them, barefoot and half-naked as they shivered and sluiced water from their skin, he shook his head. I hope you're watching, Ransom, he mentally muttered to the trader. You've sure gotten all of us in a hell of a lot of trouble....

Sian nervously backed away as the white-robed man entered, jumpy in spite of the kindness he'd been shown today. He'd been a slave for over a year already, and it hadn't taken long to learn that there was no favor without a price.
And it hadn't taken long to notice that none of the other slave-children the white-robed men took from the cells ever came back.
This time the last six of them had been taken out at once, leaving the cells empty and open behind them, and had been escorted to separate cavern-chambers.
So despite his newly cut and washed hair and the fresh white linen pants he'd been given to wear, there was fear in his dark blue eyes as the stranger stopped and inspected him.
"What's your name, boy?" he asked.
"Sian, sieur," the child answered meekly. When he'd first been spirited from the teeming streets of Ankham he'd defied his captors, but the lash had quickly cured him of that. Now, while he still kept his eyes open for a chance to escape, in other matters he obeyed as quickly as possible. There was always the chance an obedient slave might be noticed and taken out of the cells to serve in more pleasant surroundings.
"Sian," the man repeated, smiling. "I'm Marin Yethane, Sian."
"How do you do, sieur?"
"Very well, Sian, very well indeed." The man kept smiling, seeming pleased with himself. "Have you eaten lately?"
"No, sieur," Sian replied. They'd been fed regularly before, but it was the habit of their captors to starve the slaves for a few days before removing them from their cells; and none of them had seen a meal for ... well, he couldn't tell time in the cells, but for at least a day or two.
"Good, good." Yethane still seemed happy. "Well, Sian, tonight's the big night." He held out a hand. "Come with me."
A street-child knew what an older man's offered hand could mean; but a slave knew that any way out of slavery was preferable to life in a cell. Sian swallowed and took Yethane's hand, steeling himself.
But instead of the bedchamber he'd expected to be led into, the cavern he was led to was ... magnificent.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Yethane asked.
Sian nodded, speechless. Candles set along wooden frames along the arching cavern walls washed the room in brilliance, light glowing from the white altarcloth, shining from the polished stone of the cavern walls and ceiling. Men and women in hooded white robes paced through the room, ushering in the other five children or attending to chores, the sickles in their belts gleaming.
"What's it for?" Sian asked, awestruck.
"Holy rites," Yethane said pleasantly, squeezing his hand and then releasing him as a young man in white approached with a clay cup.
"A drink?" he asked, offering it. Sian looked at Yethane for permission, and at his nod took the cup and drank deeply. The red wine was better than the swill he'd sometimes stolen in Ankham, but on his empty stomach the alcohol acted quickly, making his face burn even as he handed the cup back to the young man who'd offered it.
"Good," Yethane said approvingly, patting Sian's shoulder. "Now, why don't you follow Notram here to your place on the frames? See, the other children are already climbing."
It was true, Sian saw; guided by men and women in white, the other five were clambering up the wooden frames where the candles hadn't been set. He grinned and followed his own guide, who watched attentively to make sure the wine didn't make him fall. This was better than being some noblewoman's drudge or priest's bedmate; he wasn't sure what it was all about, but everyone knew religion didn't make sense.
By the time he sat on the crossbar Notram indicated, he was half asleep, vision blurring. He felt his guide's hands on his shoulders as he swayed, and was glad someone was there to keep him from falling. In fact, he felt himself being held, and wondered if they had to climb even higher.
Someone lifted his arms. Sian tried to shake himself awake as ropes were tied around his wrists and ankles, binding him to the frame, but his body wasn't responding. Fingers tickled his palms as they opened them, flattening the backs of his hands against the hard wood. Head lolling as he tried to look around and see what was happening, Sian blurrily realized that something was wrong.
When the iron spikes drove through his palms, the drugs' effect waned, but by then it was too late for him to do anything about it.

The roar of the waves had faded, leaving only the sound of distantly dripping water and their own breathing. Bare feet made no noise on the rock floor, and Shard kept his good hand on his longsword to prevent it from hitting the walls while they climbed.
If he concentrated on their route, Padan found that the pain in his bones faded to a dull ache. He limped forward and searched the dimly lit corridors for familiar turns, slowly remembering how the route had run in his smuggling days. Nothing seemed to have changed; the shoring that had already stood for centuries still stood, the marks they'd carved into the wood years ago were darker, but still visible.
"Sss-" Eirian held up his hand and stopped, eyes closing as he concentrated. Behind him the others fell still, straining to hear what he sought with other senses.
"The stones are close," he murmured, "and the cult is probably with them." He turned. "I'll attempt to distract them; Amatus, your job's to try to find them and bring them back. Shard, you cover him. Padan, Caras, while we're concentrating, you warn us if someone tries to escape or cast a spell."
"In other words," Caras said dryly, "stay out of the way."
Eirian raised his eyebrows, then smiled ruefully.
"Forgive me," he apologized with a bow. "I don't know your skills. Do what you think needs to be done, but please be careful."
Somewhat appeased, she nodded briefly, eyes meeting Padan's. He winked. Youth always underestimated age.
"They can cover me," Shard muttered sourly as he awkwardly drew his sword left-handed. His darkly tanned face showed the strain of the past few days. Now Padan was sure that his appraisal so long ago had been correct; the stresses of the job had prematurely aged the commander, lined his face and fouled his disposition. A pity, he thought, as Eirian gestured Amatus and Shard up to walk behind him. In the days they'd been working side-by-side, he'd only seen the commander smile with true pleasure once, and the man who'd coaxed that smile from him was lying in bed with bandages around his eyes, perhaps blinded for life.
He reached out and protectively took Caras' hand. She held it tightly.
A noise echoed down the halls, freezing them in midstep. Hammering. Shard gestured to the others to wait, handing Amatus his sword and creeping forward, bare feet soundless. Half-hidden in the shadows, he slid around the corner and out of sight. Padan held his breath and Amatus bit his lip, knuckles white as he gripped the sword's hilt.
A few seconds later the commander reappeared, grim. He pointed ahead and held up his good hand with all fingers spread; closed it, and opened it again two more times.
Fifteen cultists? Padan breathed a prayer to whatever gods might be listening and anxiously eyed the archmage, who slowly nodded and lowered his eyes as he thought.
Shard rejoined them and laid a hand on Amatus' bare shoulder, silently reassuring the nervous merchant. Amatus managed to summon a brave smile, swallowing, and returned the commander's sword.
The hammering stopped.

"What was that about?" asked the gamine young lady, tossing white-blonde hair over her shoulder and leaning over the back of the armchair to study him.
The Necromancer closed the door and turned, lifting a dark eyebrow when he saw her. A smile played around his lips.
"So that's what was disturbing the guards. My dear, you shouldn't do that to the poor men. They're already under a great deal of stress, and such exhibits could give them heart failure."
"Silly human customs," she sniffed, reaching out to pull a silk robe over her bare skin and shivering slightly.
"See?" he said, walking back to his desk. "Those of us who aren't blessed with fur have to keep the chill out somehow."
"You could always heat this desolate pile of stone."
"I am." He gestured showily at the fire that blazed, uselessly, in the study room of the cliffside tower. She sniffed again, obviously unimpressed.
"And what was that about, the guards?" she asked again. He sighed and looked up from his papers. She gazed at him with wide-eyed, utterly feigned innocence.
"The Swords were warning me that the cult has apparently gotten its hands on the demonstones, and seems intent on awakening Caren tonight."
"Oh!" This time her eyes truly widened. "What are you going to do?"
"Nothing, right now." He turned and leaned back in his chair. "Eirian and Shard are hunting them down, so there's not much left for me to do but wait. If they fail ... then it'll be another matter."
She rested her chin on her hands, sitting cross-legged in the armchair as she regarded him.
"Would you oppose the god of death?" she asked curiously. He chuckled.
"I shouldn't, should I? Terrible sort of thing for a necromancer to do, one would think." He shook his head, old eyes dancing in a young face. She began to look worried, and he laughed. "No, no, of course I'd try to keep the cult from taking over. I'm far too fond of Saldon—not to mention life—to let them rule here."
Relieved, she hopped up to throw her arms around him in an exuberant hug.
"If you just gave up that silly title, you wouldn't have to worry about ruining your 'reputation,'" she said chidingly. "And maybe we could have a party up here once in awhile." He rolled his eyes at the old argument.
"I don't think I'm going to need worry about it," he confided to her. "Everyone thinks that if the cult succeeds, Caren will show up and destroy everything in sight. They keep forgetting that death is only one of Caren's three aspects, and that bringing a death god to life is—well, a trifle paradoxical, don't you think? And why should he bother killing people who'll eventually come to him anyway? Now, I'd be somewhat more concerned if Eirian gets his hands on the demonstones."
"Why's that? He seems like a nice, virile man," she said, curling by the fire with a teasing glance. The Necromancer tsked, shaking his head.
"You, of all people, should know better than to base an opinion on surface impressions. Eirian's a very successful, ambitious man ... but I sometimes wonder what sort of things he must do to maintain that success."
"Well, he doesn't live like a recluse in a cold old windtrap like this," she pointed out, edging closer to the fire.
"If you're that cold, I can think of ways aplenty to stay warm," he said, raising his eyebrows with a genteel leer.
The white-furred fox by the fire sniffed, curling her tail over her dark nose and looking at him with vulpine mockery.
The Necromancer grinned and turned back to his papers. Just as well, he thought, amused at himself. If Eirian failed, he wouldn't want to be caught with his pants down—as it were.

Amatus shuddered, stomach churning at the sight of the children nailed to the wooden frames along the walls. They were still alive, dull eyes wandering across the chamber as blood ran down their hands and arms. Nausea made him close his eyes.
"Steady, now," Shard breathed in his ear. He swallowed and opened his eyes to see the Swords' commander staring intently into his face. Struggling to control himself, he nodded. The commander grimaced in sympathy and turned again, dark eyes narrowed as he gauged the situation. The only weapons in evidence were sickles; and most of the robed men and women didn't look like trained fighters. Murder was easy; facing a skilled swordsman, somewhat more difficult. He flexed the fingers of his left hand on the sword's hilt, and wondered.
Eirian closed his eyes, looking for signs of magical wards or protections around the cavern. White threads cobwebbed the inside of his eyelids, shifting as he moved his head from side to side. One touched an individual, one an altar; delicate strands stretched from the minds of the gathered. The hemisphere of the chamber was draped in tracery that wound in and out of the black, light-sucking veins of avertiis in the stone around them.
Padan searched out the entrances and exits, looking for things hidden in shadows or behind the wooden frameworks. There were only three obvious cavern openings, including the one they stood in now, but he was skeptical. Nobody would trap themselves in a chamber with unguarded openings unless they knew of another way out. His eyes rose, searching what he'd attempted to avoid looking at; the wooden frames and their tortured decorations. He took a deep breath to steady himself, struggling to look past the anguished faces and at the walls behind them.
Caras leaned forward, one hand resting lightly on Amatus' bare shoulder. Not daring to speak, she pointed. Set on the white cloth of the altar were two silver goblets, turned bowl-down. She pantomimed placing something small beneath them, and he nodded, face drawn. Those would be his goals. He took a deep breath and looked questioningly at Eirian. The mage's eyes were closed, his lips moving soundlessly as his head turned slightly from side to side.
The lead priest's head flew up as the first webwork unraveled.
"Now!" Shard hissed, striding fearlessly into the cavern.
"You're all under arrest in the name of the high lord and the dominarch," he thundered, voice echoing in the stone chamber. The cultists started and turned, surprise and fear chasing each other across their faces.
The red-haired priest regarded him thoughtfully, blue eyes mild and amused as they rested on Shard's face. One eyebrow rose as he contemplated Shard's nearly naked state, the white bandage that flashed against dark skin, the sword held in his left hand. Shard met the gaze squarely, night-black eyes fearless as he ignored the milling crowd of cultists between them.
Amatus took a deep breath and dashed into the chamber.
"A cripple and a boy." Kai lifted a hand sharply, and suddenly Padan was blinking in bright light. "And a mage and two elders. Not such a threat." His voice hardened. "Get them," he snapped, the light extinguishing again.
The cultists jumped, as if shaken out of a daydream, and came to life. Hands reached for Amatus as he ran by, and others carefully advanced toward the doorway, drawing their sickles. Shard raised the tip of his sword, shaking his hair out of his eyes and behind his shoulders as he readied himself to meet them.
Padan felt a hand on his.
"Don't be a fool," Caras chided him. He stopped his instinctive movement forward, looking over his shoulder with an offended expression. Her eyes met his kindly. "You're too old to fight."
"Calling me old?" he protested—the timeworn joke. She smiled.
"Now, would I lie?" she asked, eyes slowly travelling to the door and the poorly lit chamber beyond. "Remember when people used to call you dishonest, too? How were you at sneaking back then?"
A foot in front of them, Eirian stood with eyes closed, confronting Kai in the way of mages, mind speeding past a labyrinth of spells and wardings, seeking a way to the unprotected centre that was the priest.
Amatus dodged the fingers of one cultist, ducked and twisted under another's outstretched arms. Bare feet on stone, a game of dodge; and he felt like a child again, playing along the sunny rooftops of Haute Lucerne and running to avoid being ducked into a water-filled street by his playmates.
He'd always been good at dodge.
Someone's fingernails scratched his arm as he yanked out of the last cluster of cultists. His hands hit the stone top of the altar and he braced himself against it. On the other side of the altar, the red-haired priest stood with flashing sickle in hand, waiting grimly for him.
No time to stop; the others still pressed forward. His feet left the floor as he vaulted over the altar, body twisting.
He landed back to the priest, facing the cavern entrance and his friends. Silver goblets tumbled to the ground as he swept them aside, fingers plucking the small blue stones from small silver saucers.
Something flashed to his left, metal biting deeply into flesh.
Amatus screamed.
Shard stiffened at the sound of the young merchant's cry, dark eyes flickering upward toward the front of the chamber. All he could see were the grim, nervous faces of the cultists who circled him.
"Hell," he swore bitterly, lunging forward. The tip of his sword caught a sickle's curve, twisted. The tool turned weapon clattered to the ground and the cultist before him—a middle-aged woman who was perhaps, on the isle's surface, a fisherman's wife or taverner's cook—hastily backed up, eyes widening.
A braver soul swung, and Shard caught him on the face with the edge of the blade. He staggered backward, cheek laid open. The Swords' commander relentlessly continued his step-by-step progress toward the altar, face grim.
Padan staggered in mid-step, catching himself against a wooden leg of the great crucifixion framework around them. His knees were sending searing bursts of agony through him, but he didn't dare slow down. As he made his way in the flickering shadows between the framework and the wall, he could see Amatus struggling with the priest. Blood slicked the merchant's arms and chest as he fought to stand. Behind him Kai's face was alight with fevered determination as he pressed Amatus' face to the altar, one blood-covered hand clutching the back of his neck as the other hand gripped his sickle. Fear sent a chill down Padan's spine as he saw the priest's arm rise for the blow that would sacrifice Amatus to Caren.
He looked around wildly for something to throw, and snapped one of the heavy tallow tapers from its place on the crucifixion frames. The high priest's sickle glittered in the unsteady light.
Padan jerked his hand over his shoulder and threw.
It was no throwing knife, and even in his youth Padan couldn't have hoped to harm someone with such a makeshift missile. But it struck the red-haired priest's chest in mid-spin, jarring the priest backward before falling uselessly to the floor. The priest faltered, looking up for the new threat.
On the other side of the chamber, Caras stepped softly out from the framework's shadows. Her heart pounded, and despite the danger they were in, she couldn't keep a tight smile of excitement from her face as she crept closer.
Dazed, nauseous, Amatus let his arm slide heavily from the side of the altar where he'd been trying to pull himself up. The jerk against his shoulders made his vision darken and he gasped, feeling himself slide into unconsciousness. Two bright blue gemstones slipped from his loose fingers and bounced on the stone floor.
Eirian felt them fall, burning against his mind, but could do nothing. The lacework spells around Kai turned in on themselves like some complex mobieus strip, impossibly endless. Frustrated, he burned one uselessly turning dead end and searched again for the pathway inward. Time, he sensed, was growing short.
Sweat stung the miniscule cuts on his face as Shard parried another blow, mechanically working his way forward. There was no art here; the cultists' attacks were mostly half-hearted, reluctant feints. Sometimes he recognized a face. When he could, he hissed the name of the cultist; fear at being recognized made the attacker fall back, confused, and let the commander push forward another few feet. Intellectually, he knew they could easily swamp him if they'd wanted. But these were people used to going about in secret, people whose lives above were undoubtedly mundane. They weren't trained to kill a professional swordsman, especially not the commander of the city-state's guard. Instead, they slunk back, nervously waiting for their leader to do something.
He swung again, taking no pleasure in this mockery of a battle. The one Shard really wanted was up there somewhere, with Amatus. He hoped the others were doing their part in rescuing the stones. All he could do was keep the cannon fodder occupied. More or less what he always did.
Sometimes he hated his job.
Kai relaxed slightly as he saw who he faced; the half-naked old man who limped from the wall to face him was no threat. Kai briefly considered him as an opponent, then dismissed him. Time was rapidly growing shorter, and the rituals were plummeting into chaos. He only hoped the blood of the young man before him would suffice.
Behind Kai, crouched, Caras quietly twisted a long scrap of cloth torn from her shift between her thin hands. She wasn't a stranger to violence—nobody who'd lived on Saldon during the Chaldonean War had been—but she'd never tried to kill anyone in cold blood before. Her father's friends had spared her that necessity, always around to protect her and the small shop from wartime gangs or midnight raiders. But she was familiar with the theory behind the deed.
She took a long look at Amatus' limp, blood-covered form, letting the anger and grief grow. She'd need all the hatred she could get.
Blue flickered beneath his limp hand. All of the sudden her resolution vanished. Should she try to stop Kai, or rescue the demonstones? Save Amatus or the island?
She faltered.
Eirian ignored the quandary of the minds around him—minds united in their confusion and indecisiveness as each faced a situation they hadn't foreseen. Instead, he eagerly followed a ribbon of magic that turned crimson under his questing touch. The vibrating path of sorcery burned through the unimportant and misleading, plunging into the webwork like a falling star. Eirian laughed as he followed, a sound that his companions would have found startlingly unpleasant.
But then, they didn't realize how ruthless the High Lord's Mage could be in pursuit of a goal.
Mystic flame blossomed as he reached the strand's end.
Kai stiffened, hands convulsively reaching up as if to ward off a blow. The sickle fell, grazing Amatus' bare back and skittering away over the floor.
Caras' decision was made for her. She awkwardly scuttled forward and scooped up the gems and fallen sickle, cradling them against her salt-stiffened shift with triumph.
Released, Amatus slowly slid the rest of the way off the altar. The jar of his knees hitting the stone roused him from his daze, but without the thin, wiry arm that suddenly caught him, he still would have fallen.
"Come on," Caras said anxiously, stroking his hair from his blood-spattered face with concern. "We have to get out of here!"

Kai knew at once when Eirian pierced the core of his magical armor, the protections that shielded him from detection and attack. Like a flame licking a cobweb, the archmage seared away everything he'd built up and left him without prepared defense.
He struggled to rally himself, eyes turning apprehensively toward the still figure in the cavern's mouth.
The figure opened its eyes and cruelly smiled.
You wouldn't believe the amount of trouble you've caused me, Eirian whispered across the room, for Kai's ears only.
The priest steadied himself for the attack, mind leaping out in search of the lightning-bright energy of the demonstones. He wouldn't mind death if it meant awakening his god to life.
A wall of impenetrable will slammed down around him. He threw himself against it, seeking a break in its barrier of cold fury. As he circled its narrow confines and assailed it with spell after spell, he was forced to realize that Eirian had trapped him well.
And the walls of the mental prison were closing in on themselves.

Padan was afraid to believe it at first; but after another long second passed and the red-haired priest stood motionless, eyes turned inward, his heart leaped and he shouted:
"We have him!"
Shaken by the cry, the cultists abandoned their harrying of the crippled commander, backing up and shooting frightened glances at their motionless leader and at each other.
"Padan!" He saw Caras struggling to support their young friend, her arm stretched around his bloody chest. She lifted her free hand. "Catch!"
The blue light in the heart of the demonstones gleamed in the candlelight as they arced into the air and slowly fell toward him. The cultists' faces turned upward as they watched the gems rise, and fall again.
Much to his surprise, Padan caught them.
"Enough!" Shard thundered, before the crowd could shake off its momentary paralyzation, "your leader's been captured and you're all under arrest. Drop your weapons and line up against the wall!"
One of the cultists lost his nerve, tossing his sickle to the ground and racing down the unguarded exit. Immediately others began to follow, taking flight.
Shard watched them a moment, then let himself slump slightly, closing his eyes as the crowd stampeded away from him. His shoulders ached, his arm hurt, and his feet were sore.
He'd stationed men at all the known entrances to the mines. With luck, all the escaping cultists would be picked up and the damn cult wiped off the island for good.
Then his eyes flew open as he remembered Amatus' cry, and realized he still didn't know if the merchant lived.
With an effort, he straightened and looked around, tightening and loosening his left hand on the hilt to work out the stiffness that was beginning to form. A handful of cultists still hesitated, hovering by the exit but watching Kai in hopes that he'd recover.
"You! Against the wall!" he roared, lifting the blade and taking a threatening step forward. They fled. He sighed and turned.
Padan was halfway across the room, clutching the gems in one hand and limping quickly toward the door. Behind him, Caras struggled to support Amatus and drag him away from Kai's motionless body.
Shard looked around for something to clean his blade on, then shrugged and sheathed it uncleaned, heading toward them.
In his shrinking cage, Kai huddled and desperately sought the key that would break Eirian' hold. He knew the archmage must be tired; such expenditure of energy was draining. But he couldn't count on a trained mage losing concentration at such a crucial time; he'd have to find his own way out of the trap.
Somewhere Eirian must have a weakness that could be used.
Greed, yes, that was there, and ambition; love for a young wife, but that was useless to Kai, as were his friendships. A streak of ruthlessness, perhaps cruelty—but that was more danger than aid to him. Kai circled around and around.
"Here, let me." Shard let Caras slide the young merchant's weight onto his right shoulder, good left hand reaching up to hold him steady. As she did, he glanced at the wound. His professional estimation was that Amatus didn't have long to live if something wasn't done soon; he'd lost too much blood from the deep sickle wound.
Damn. He'd grown to like the spirited young merchant. He hadn't even had the chance to apologize for punching him yet.
Caras, glimpsing his expression, shivered.
"Maybe Exalt Eirian can do something," she said worriedly, looking past them at the figure of the high priest and wondering what sort of arcane war raged between the archmage and he even as they spoke.
Through the walls that trapped him, Kai felt the blue spark of a demonstone leap before him. Its complex web of power channels seemed to pull him, seemed almost to suck him forward with some sort of malevolent intelligence. He wonderingly took the trail it offered, following it past the archmage's barrier.
Eirian snarled a curse as he felt Kai's will slip away from his.
Kai's eyes focused as he staggered slightly, muscles aching from being held immobile. Straightening, he bared his teeth at the archmage's figure in the shadowed doorway, eyes narrowing.
"He's free!" Caras gasped. Shard tried to turn, still supporting the merchant, but she was already past him.
"Don't!" he shouted, watching with alarm as the white-haired old woman ran up to Kai and grabbed his robe sleeve with one hand, clutching the sickle with the other. Cursing the irascible old lady, Shard stood there, helpless to draw his own weapon without dropping Amatus.

Eirian, ignoring his companions' actions as he focused all his attention on the high priest, felt Kai reaching out for the demonstones. The demonstones! His eyes flew to Padan, and he quickly drew the spellweave around him again.
With a gleeful laugh, Kai realized the stones had betrayed the intruders, just as they had betrayed so many of the unworthy before. The image of Eirian pale in an endless sleep pleased him; and he acted.
As Eirian felt Kai's mental lunge, he acted.
Padan yelped as the gems grew red-hot, dropping them and hopping back with a shake of his burnt hand.
Two clashed in the matrix-maze of the shattering demongem.

Thinking only that she had to defend her friends, Caras swung.

With a triumphant roar, Eirian felt Kai falter and fall, screaming, back into his own dying body. Unfinished threads of spellweave released their unanchored energy and burned. He pulled his will back instants before the demonstone burst, exploding on the floor feet away from Padan.
Only one remained, a blue flame on the bare stone.

Eirian opened his eyes to see Padan looking uncertainly at him, the demonstone still on the floor.
"Are you all right?" Padan asked, eyes scanning his face with sharp suspicion, as if not sure who really stood there.
"I'm all right," Eirian said, fighting not to show the sudden weariness that swept over him. The old man relaxed slightly, assured their mage wasn't a mindless vegetable—or Kai's mindslave. The Necromancer had told him stories of such things happening during duels arcane, during that long-ago conversation in a warehouse filled with smuggled beer.
Eirian lifted his eyes to see Shard and Caras approaching, Amatus held between them. The merchant's blood smeared Caras' bare arms and shift.
"Caras!" Padan's eyes widened as he turned to see who Eirian was looking at. He forgot the mage and the demonstone.
"Are you hurt?" he asked worriedly, touching her arm.
"Don't be ridiculous," she said, somewhat faintly, smiling at him through the tear-tracks that ran down her wrinkled cheeks. He felt a lump in his throat.
"She killed that priest, I think," Shard explained shortly as Eirian took Amatus from them and lowered him to the floor, crouching to examine the young merchant's wounds. "Just clubbed him with the sickle handle, but he dropped like he'd been poleaxed."
"Her timing happened to be fortunate," Eirian remarked as he tilted Amatus' head to one side. "Kai and I were locked in the gem's matrix."
"Sounds unpleasant," Shard said drily.
Eirian gave him a fleeting look.
"Trust me," he said, "it could have been. If one of us had managed to get the upper hand the gem would have been used with both of us locked into it. I've never heard of that happening before," he mused, frowning as he let Amatus slide back against the wall, "but I doubt either of us would have come through it, ah, unchanged. As it was, the shock killed him when his concentration was broken. She can't claim the kill as her own."
"Nice. Well?" Shard gestured impatiently toward Amatus.
"He's not in good shape." Eirian settled back on his heels, giving Shard a steady look. "He's dying."
The commander nodded slowly, holding the archmage's eyes. Behind them, Caras shivered and reached out for Padan's hand. He pulled her close, an arm around her shoulders, as they listened.
"Is there time to get him to a healer? My men are at the gates above."
"I don't know," Eirian said, shaking his head and resting one hand on Amatus' chest. "I could slow down the bleeding. It might buy us enough time."
"Do it," Shard ordered.
Eirian took a deep breath, summoning what scraps of energy he could to perform this last spell. Amatus gasped once, convulsing, then fell back motionless.
Caras flinched, and Padan felt his mouth dry.
Shard gave the archmage a cold, measuring look as he felt for a pulse. After a long moment he drew his hand back, nodding.
"It seems to have worked," he said, standing. "Eirian, you'd better get him upstairs." The archmage nodded, looking wan from his latest effort, and hoisted Amatus' still form. As he walked across the room, he scooped up the last gem and tucked it into a fold of his loincloth with a nod to the commander.
After the archmage vanished down a corridor, Shard took a deep breath and looked at Padan and Caras. "We have the harder job." Padan followed his gaze upward, to the children hung in drugged insensibility from the candlelit crucifixion frames.

The sharp retort of wooden chair legs striking the stone floor snapped Lady Jashira from the half-sleep she'd drifted into. Tightening her arms slightly around her youngest, she looked up.
The assassin had straightened, gloved hand reaching for the bottle of red wine on the table. As he poured, Lucan blinked sleepily at him.
"You're making the guards nervous," he said, yawning and reaching over to touch Jashira's hand. She smiled fleetingly at her husband, not at all as comfortable as he seemed to be in the killer Raven's presence. Lucan had assured her that he owed Raven his life today, but that did little to alleviate her concern for the children, whom Raven ignored with cold tolerance. She was afraid that if they bothered him too much he might forget himself ... there were stories of his addiction to Alerien.... Their oldest, Acaric, had noticed her concerned look and kept the younger ones occupied with word games and stories until they fell asleep.
The guards at the door kept an attentive eye on the gaunt, black-clad man.
"We're safe now," Raven explained shortly, lifting the goblet to his lips. It was the first drink he'd had that long night.
"How do you know?" Lucan asked, with a trace of skepticism.
"The bells. Eirian said the cult must complete the summons before second bell. It just rang."
Jashira looked questioningly at the guards. She'd been too drowsy to hear; but the officer nodded slightly to her. She let out a relieved sigh, waking the child in her arms.
"Can we go now?" the girl asked blearily, squirming. She hushed her, stroking the long hair and looking up at Raven for a reply.
The assassin stood, shaking lank black hair over his shoulders and walking toward the door. The guards stiffened slightly, and Acaric drew his feet beneath him, ready to defend his father.
"Let him pass," Lucan ordered, watching the assassin curiously. With a scowl of mistrust, the guards let Raven through. He unlocked the door and slid out without a word.
"Milord, you should not trust him," Captain Hever said sternly, watching the doorway closely. Lucan smiled wryly.
"Don't be foolish, captain. I'm sure he wouldn't waste his time saving me from that Harquane fellow if he intended to kill me tonight."
"Tonight," the officer stressed with a grim inflection. Lucan waved a negligent hand.
"Yes, yes, don't worry. He and I have already gone over that. I don't intend to give him free run of the palace. Right now, however, he's here as my guest and Eirian's."
Hever tightened his lips in disapproval, but remained silent as the door swung open again.
"There's no blood flowing through the streets," Raven said. Jashira gave him a sharp look, but couldn't tell if he was joking or serious. Her daughter sat up in her arms, looking at the gaunt figure with startlement. "I assume it's safe."
"Thank you, Raven," Lucan said, standing. Captain Hever shifted slightly, positioning himself to interpose between the two should the need arise. Raven caught the action with a flicker of his eyes and backed up with an ironic glance.
"Wait, Father," Acaric said, springing up to walk next to him. Lucan nodded, and the two left the room side-by-side.
"Go on," Jashira urged the rest of the children, who'd sat up but were still half asleep. Her daughter slipped from her arms and ran after them. She sighed, smoothed her skirt and stood.
She stopped in the doorway, looking up into Raven's eyes. Whether she personally trusted him or not, she realized, he'd saved the life of the man she loved, and had made himself responsible for her family's safety this night.
He seemed ill at ease under her inspection, violet eyes sliding away from her gaze. It was the first sign of discomfort she'd seen in him all evening.
"Raven, thank you for saving my husband's life," she said quietly, extending a hand. "And thank you for guarding us tonight."
Captain Hever turned white, but held himself still as he remembered his liege's orders.
Raven hesitated, obviously taken aback, then reluctantly extended his gloved hand. She was surprised at the delicacy of his touch as he bowed over her hand with somewhat rusty grace.
"My lady," he murmured, straightening and drawing his hand back as soon as it was polite. Captain Hever relaxed minutely, but kept a watchful eye on the assassin.
Jashira smiled, inclined her head and followed her straggling children down the corridor with some relief. For a moment he'd almost seemed like a man raised to manners—but the thought passed, and she was simply happy to be out from under his cool violet eyes.
Only the watchful Captain Hever saw the look of bemusement that crossed the assassin's face as he watched her leave, wiping his gloved fingertips absently against his shirt-front.

"We still have some unfinished business," Shard said as Jarek left the room clutching a pile of transcripts and forms. Padan stifled a yawn and glanced dryly at Caras. The commander had kept them up hours already, filling out paperwork and making sure a record of the events was prepared for High Lord Lucan's eventual perusal. He seemed intent on making sure no loose ends remained except Amatus' statement, which he would have to get later.
The young merchant was unconscious in bed. The healers had been carefully optimistic about his recovery, but had warned them that he would undoubtedly suffer some loss of movement in his arm when the muscles had healed. Padan was simply relieved it would be no worse; he was certain the young merchant's intrinsically optimistic manner would rise above the handicap. At any rate, both he and Caras had agreed they would visit Amatus regularly to see how his recovery came along.
"And what might that be?" Eirian asked, sighing. As full of life as the mage liked to present himself, Padan could tell he was running on the last of his reserves. Not only were spells inconvenient, he thought to himself, but apparently tiring, as well. Much of magic's glamour had worn off for him during the last few days, especially when he saw the extremes to which it could be taken. The sight of nails slowly being pulled from children's palms still woke him up some nights, shaking. Shard had placed the children in the tabernacle of Bel's care, the priest Shaugn promising they'd be taken care of and found good homes. Padan sincerely hoped so; if their ordeal still gave him nightmares, he could hardly bear to think of what it had done to them.
"The last demonstone." Shard's dark eyes met Eirian's steadily. "I believe there was one left?"
The archmage gave the Swords' commander a long, measuring look, then glanced coolly at Padan and Caras. For a chilling moment Padan thought the mage might refuse to return the stone, might try to change their memories with magic—or worse.
Then the archmage leaned back in his seat with a weary sigh, brown eyes seeming to warm again. Padan shook off his feeling of apprehension, embarrassed to have been caught suspecting their companion.
"So there was," Eirian said, reaching into his pants pocket. Padan caught the almost imperceptible hesitation before the mage tossed a soft leather pouch onto Shard's desk, and wondered if his first impression had been right, after all. From Ransom's death to Eirian's cold, weighing glance, the fiery blue gems seemed to have an ill effect on everything they touched. Certainly he'd come close to losing his own hand to them, had Eirian not forced him to drop them before Kai's attack.
Personally, he hoped to never touch the evil things again.
Shard closed his eyes a moment, almost in relief, and reached across for the pouch. He gave its contents a brief look before tucking it into his belt.
"Thank you," he said. "Exalt Bryony will be undoubtedly be pleased to retrieve at least some of his stolen property."
"You realize the danger you're putting the rest of the island in, giving it back to that madman?" Caras asked sharply.
"What do you suggest I do?" Shard asked, turning to face her. "I could keep them, but that might upset Exalt Bryony, and inspire him to see that I lose my position. I'm sure the next person who sat behind this desk would be more than happy to see the gem returned to him."
Caras frowned, hearing the echoes of their first argument in his words, then sighed.
"No, I suppose you're right. It's all you can do." She gave him a wry look, a tremulous understanding hovering between them. "I don't envy you your job, Commander Shard."
Shard nodded, hearing her unspoken apology.
"Well," Eirian said, looking tired but slightly more relaxed than he'd been when he'd first entered the guards' headquarters, "I still have to talk to the high lord before I can sleep, so if you'll excuse me...." He bowed to the other three, pulling his raincloak from the chair.
"Good night, Archmage Eirian duLon," Shard said formally, standing and returning the bow. The archmage gave him a lingering look, eyes dropping to the pouch in his belt, and then lifted his hand slightly in farewell and strode out of the room.
"Looks like we should be going, too," Padan said, leaning heavily on his ash cane as he stood. He reached across the desk and extended his hand. "Be careful with that thing—bad place for it to shatter," he said, gesturing toward the pouch tucked into Shard's belt. The commander gave him a sour look. His right hand was still bandaged, and the healers had told them Malachim was still badly injured, though they felt the chances that his sight would return were improving. "Thanks for helping me find Ransom's murderer," Padan finished, as the commander shook wrong-handed with him.
"Thank you for staying near for the rest of the case," Shard returned. "Things would have been considerably more difficult without your help," he added, including both of them in his words.
"Hmm," Caras said, eyeing him. The commander paused, but she refrained from the obvious comment, smiling sweetly as she left. He shook his head, watching them go.
"Looks like the storms might be clearing," Caras said as they waved goodbye to Jarek and stepped out into the puddle-filled streets. Both took a deep breath of the rain-fresh, salty air. "What now, old man?"
"I'm tempted," Padan grumbled, "to teach you never to call me an 'old man' again."
She looked at him, blue eyes twinkling in a frame of laugh-lines.
"And how would you do that, old man?"
"Come up to my room and I'll show you," he said evilly, eyebrows waggling. She burst into laughter and linked her arm through his.
"Maybe if you moved out of that damn tavern...." she said thoughtfully as they walked off.

Late that night the poet Exalt Wolf Bryony tossed restlessly in bed, silk sheets winding around his sweat-dampened body. With a fevered groan he threw out one arm, jostling the small stand beside his canopied bed.
One lone demonstone rolled slightly, then sat still, reflecting back the light of the moon with a steady, malevolent blue glow.
Bryony screamed.